The King of Vodka (33 page)

T
he faces of the new arrivals to Constantinople, as many as 140,000 in one month during the evacuation of the White Army in November 1920, were at once relieved and bewildered. They were relieved that the life-threatening horrors they had faced were now far beyond the Black Sea, and bewildered upon realizing that they had nothing, knew no one, and had not a clue as to what they were going to do next. These refugees had to adapt to the local language and new customs. As one American relief worker in Constantinople observed: “It is pitiful. There are Russians who were colonels and generals in the army who are selling papers on the street, scarcely getting anything, trying to do what they can in order to get something to eat, but they can only get a little. They don't know the language; they have nothing to do; and with no business in Constantinople, there is no hope for them.”
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This was the place Vladimir and Valentina now called home. Unlike many Russians who relied on Constantinople as little more than a way station on the road to cities
farther west, Vladimir and Valentina decided to stay put. They had managed to bring some money and valuables with them from Russia, but it was not nearly enough, certainly not for a couple used to a privileged life. They needed time to generate some income and replenish their resources—and they knew just how to do it. The two enjoyed one pivotal advantage that most other new arrivals did not. They had recognizable names and well-established reputations.

Almost simultaneously, Vladimir and Valentina sought to revive the businesses and careers they knew best. For Vladimir, it was unquestionably vodka making. Even though he had tried to distance himself from the brand and industry that had made his father wealthy and famous, he realized it was his only real vocation. All his other pursuits, including horse breeding and racing, had been aristocratic pleasures, indulgences he could now not afford. It did not seem to matter that Vladimir had sold his interest in his father's vodka enterprise to his older brother, Pyotr. He was gone now, and no one probably knew what had become of his two other surviving brothers, Nikolay and Aleksey. The Smirnov brand was his heritage—and his only hope for survival.

Awhile after docking, he ventured into the heart of Constantinople in search of a suitable space for a vodka factory. He found one. It was to be a small operation, presumably producing mainly the pure and flavored vodkas for which his family had been best known. Vladimir still remembered many of the recipes his father had concocted. On January 10, 1920, the Russian consulate in Constantinople granted Vladimir a license to open his new firm. The certificate was full of references to a Russia that had been cast into history, calling Vladimir the son of a first guild merchant and the manager of a vodka distillery that once supplied the Imperial Court.
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In Turkey, such references still had meaning within the bulging immigrant community.

Valentina was also working hard to reestablish herself. Con
stantinople had a thriving theater community, thanks in part to dozens of Russian actors who had settled in the city after the revolution. With Vladimir as manager, Valentina founded a cabaret theater called Parisiana. Its French-sounding name was meant to entice Russia's French-loving ex-aristocracy, which had always held France as the epitome of good taste and refinement. At first, Valentina found a loyal, appreciative audience, attracting “the cream of the [Russian army],” according to Pyotr Isheyev, formerly a high-ranking military officer who had come to live in Smirnov's vodka factory after escaping the revolution. However, that venture did not last long. Indeed, both Vladimir and Valentina struggled to keep these enterprises afloat, but the Russian customers to whom they catered were primarily a newly impoverished, inward-looking group, either unable or unwilling to spend their remaining rubles on drinks or entertainment. As for the Turks, they were merely uninterested in what Vladimir or Valentina had to offer. “The factory business did not go well. Turkish people didn't drink vodka,” wrote Isheyev, a distinguished-looking man with a softness in his eyes. “And Parisiana, which had flourished in the beginning, for some reason became unpopular.”
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Isheyev and other witnesses wrote about the unending difficulties faced by Russian refugees in Constantinople. Apart from shortages of everything from housing to food, Russians found themselves largely unwanted. Turkey was in the midst of a protracted struggle for national independence, led by Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, the founder of the Turkish Republic. The country had no ability or incentive to absorb another country's needy cast-aways, and the government was concerned that Turkish rebels might try to recruit ex-Russian soldiers for its own agenda. The local culture was also alien to Russians, culminating in a political, economic, and social environment that was often hostile.

Vladimir and Valentina accepted this unfortunate reality, but they were tired of running. They made a last-ditch effort
to get something sustainable going in Constantinople. Valentina reprised her starring role in Offenbach's
Beautiful Helen
at a summer theater called Buff. The production had always been a favorite of her audiences, and it did well in Constantinople, too. Beautiful costumes, original staging, and inspired music and dancing helped lure a constant stream of enthusiastic attendees, according to the memoirs of several Russian exiles.

That success, though, came at a price: It piqued the interest of the Turks—at least the government's tax collectors. Nearly two years after Vladimir and Valentina arrived in Turkey, the tax agents showed up one morning and presented them with an enormous tax bill. It requested payment of an amount far beyond the pair's financial means.
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Not satisfying the bill would mean certain jail time. Once again, regretfully, Vladimir and Valentina packed their bags and crossed the border into Bulgaria, a common stop for Russian immigrants after Constantinople. The couple landed in the capital city of Sofia where they met up with Isheyev, who had fled there a few months earlier with a small group of actors.

 

B
ULGARIA WAS A
far more hospitable location for Russian émigrés. The languages were much closer to one another—as were the cultures. Both Russians and Bulgarians were of Slavic origin, creating a common bond between the two nations and its people. The Bulgarian government, too, was welcoming. It used public funds to provide Russians with a variety of social services. The government also offered certificates enabling Russians to take jobs with the state and to travel without needing Bulgarian citizenship.

Vladimir took advantage of the friendlier atmosphere. With Isheyev's help and a handful of investors, he established another outpost for Smirnov vodka. Isheyev would manage the factory while Vladimir would own the business. “The factory business
went well,” recalled Isheyev. “First, there were parts of the White Army there who liked vodka. And the Bulgarians started to appreciate it in time.”
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In short order, it appeared as if Vladimir may have sold or licensed the rights to his brand name, along with the rights to his family's liquor recipes. “A buyer appeared who proposed a good price for the factory,” wrote Isheyev. It was no giant windfall but Vladimir was only too happy to pocket any profit, however small.

Valentina was doing well, too, continuing to entertain the hoards of expatriates from Russia, now resettled in Sofia. Valentina's reputation as a leading lady still loomed large. She managed to entice paying customers to her concerts, including a well-to-do Polish diplomat by the name of Ladislas Baronowski. Valentina and Baronowski had a great deal in common, starting with their Polish roots. It is not clear exactly when and how their relationship bloomed. Indeed, it appeared that at first all three, Vladimir, Valentina, and Baronowski, formed strong bonds of friendship. Soon, though, Valentina and Baronowski were no longer just friends. Valentina, according to Smirnova-Maksheyeva's memories, could not resist the allure of a man with money and position, making their budding romance not necessarily only a matter of love. More likely, Valentina's desperate desire to regain a sense of security and access to the finer things in life, neither of which Vladimir could now provide, brought the couple together.

The breakup shattered Vladimir. Valentina had been the one woman to whom he had been devoted. With Valentina, he had been part of a golden couple within the inner circles of Russian theater, and this had been the passion of his life. As was Valentina, who had traded much of her own remaining fortune, from furs to jewels, to help ensure that Vladimir did not perish at the hands of the Bolsheviks. He, in turn, had supported her, making sure there was nothing for which she could want. Theirs had been a true love, a genuine match that had superseded all the trivialities that made up their public lives.

The depth of their feelings was underscored by their remaining connection long after their split. Following the sale of Vladimir's vodka business in Sofia, the threesome moved again. This time they settled in Lvov, Poland. Baronowski had great influence there and was able to help Vladimir get established in 1923. It was in Lvov, now part of Ukraine, that Vladimir decided to formalize his efforts to preserve the Smirnov brand. His idea was to plant seeds in as many locales as possible, willing the spirits firm to endure and flourish. His company's main objective would be to license the Smirnov name and recipes to as many takers in as many communities as possible.

Vladimir reached into the heart of Russia and found his brother Nikolay in Moscow. He wrote to him, asking for his power of attorney to create a shell company that would be responsible for peddling the remains of their father's business, primarily its brand, reputation, honors, and secret recipes. It would most likely manufacture nothing itself. Vladimir and Nikolay would be part owners of that enterprise, along with Baronowski, Valentina, and a Russian lawyer they knew in Moscow. Nikolay, it appears, wasted no time in fulfilling his brother's request. There would have been no point in resisting. Nikolay could not revive the family business, despite the ending of prohibition in Russia and reinstatement of the vodka monopoly later in 1925. Too many obstacles stood in his way, and Nikolay did not possess the skills or ambition to navigate the new state system, particularly during a time of such economic turmoil. He also could not rely on his youngest brother, Aleksey, for help, for he had died of heart trouble a year earlier. Perhaps most daunting was that the old Smirnov company was now part of a large state-owned enterprise by the name of Vintorgpravleniye, later known simply as Vintorg. An umbrella organization that united many previously private businesses, including the Smirnovs, it produced the same drinks Smirnov had manufactured. It even used the same labels—absent the Smirnov name and the former company's array of honors.

Nikolay put his faith in Vladimir. In his own shaky hand, he signed over all his rights to Vladimir. The last two remaining Smirnov brothers, both of whom had sold their interests in the family business years earlier, were bound together once again by their shared vodka heritage. The letter, dated June 18, 1923, attested to the different fates that had befallen the men. It was signed: “Citizen Nikolay Petrovich Smirnov.”
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The new firm was born in Lvov. Its name, Société Pierre Smirnoff Fils, registered in French, may have been the first time the brand was officially spelled the Western European way with two
f
s. The owners were also the firm's board of directors. In its first transaction, the company hooked up with a small local alcohol manufacturer who planned to produce about five hundred bottles of Smirnov liquor per day.
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Vladimir then sold other licenses to groups in Prague and Paris. It is not known how much income these deals generated for Vladimir or his co-owners, or how much liquor was produced and sold under the brand.

Despite this success, Vladimir was deeply unhappy during his stay in Lvov. Valentina probably moved back to Bulgaria with Baronowski, leaving Vladimir alone. He had some friends from the old days and a handful of new acquaintances, but life was now so different for him—no matter how hard he tried to re-create what he once had had. He realized, like many Russians, that any hope of returning to the motherland was dimming. Thousands had chosen to return, but they knew, too, that Russia could never revert to its former self. Petrograd had been renamed Leningrad in 1924 following the death of Lenin. The former Bolshevik leader had left a will explicitly stating that Stalin should be removed from his position as general secretary of the Communist Party. The directive ignored, Stalin's iron fist grew stronger. On a personal level, Vladimir learned that his own son, now twenty-three years old, and Aleksandra, Vladimir's ex-wife, still lived in Moscow in the eight-room, one-bathroom flat that he had purchased for them years ago. But now, so did members of seven other families.
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Vladimir began to look ahead in earnest, strategizing his best chance at building a real, lasting future for himself. His thoughts took him to the one place he had long adored, a second home of sorts to much of Russia's former aristocracy. Many of the people he knew during his happiest years were there already, setting up little, self-contained Russian colonies, complete with Russian churches, schools, restaurants, music, and theaters. Vladimir applied to the Polish government for a passport, packed his bags, and hopped a train. He was going to France.

 

F
RANCE, AND
P
ARIS
in particular, was like little Russia in the 1920s. Its chic style, sophisticated art and literary scenes, and its willingness ultimately to accept more than 150,000 Russians made it an enticing destination. Paris offered the added benefit of being architecturally reminiscent of St. Petersburg. A vast array of Russia's most prominent, promising, and ordinary citizens relocated to the French capital. Composers Igor Stravinsky and Sergey Prokofiev, bass opera singer Fyodor Shalyapin, and painters Aleksander Benois and Marc Chagall all emigrated to Paris. Members of the late tsar's family, including his brother-in-law, Duke Aleksander Mikhailovich, and Grand Duke Dmitriy Pavlovich Romanov, who took part in the killing of Rasputin, now resided in France. Distinguished merchants and wealthy capitalists gravitated there as well, such as members of the Ryabushinskiy textile dynasty, industrialist Sergey Tretyakov, and textile magnate Sergey Shchukin, a prolific collector of French impressionist art. Shchukin's more than 250 magnificent works, which included masterpieces by Matisse, Monet, Picasso, and Gauguin, were expropriated by the Russian state after he fled to Paris.
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