Sashenka

Perhaps Satinov had been wrong? Perhaps the only link between Mendel and Benya was that both were prominent, and it was this that put them in danger. Before he left, Vanya had told her that other writers and artists had recently been arrested: Babel for one, Koltsov the journalist, Meyerhold the theatrical director. Perhaps they were connected? Vanya had whispered that they were planning a fourth show trial, starring the fallen “Iron Commissar” Yezhov, and were considering tossing some diplomats and intellectuals into the cauldron. Perhaps that was what this nightmare was about?

She kissed the children; she hugged Carolina; she dressed in her favorite cream suit with white buttons and the blouse with the big white collar; she touched behind her ears with some Red Moskva perfume. Greeting the janitor and the guards, she walked to work. Granovsky was an elegant street, the apartment building pink and ornate, a wonderful place to live. Down the road, behind, stood the Kremlevka where the best specialists had delivered her babies.

She came out of Granovsky near Moscow University, where Snowy and Carlo would study one day.

The zestful breeze danced around her and she smiled as she passed the Kremlin, beaming waves of affection at the charming little window of the exquisite Amusements Palace, right by the wall of the Alexander Gardens where Stalin had lived until the suicide of his wife Nadya. As she crossed the Manege and passed the National Hotel, she caught sight of the domed and triangular splendor of the Sovnarkom Building where Stalin worked and where he lived, where the light was on all night. Thank you, Comrade Stalin, you always know the right thing to do, she telegraphed to him mentally through the amber air of a sunny Moscow day. You met Snowy, you understand everything. Health and long life to you, Josef Vissarionovich!

Walking with her slightly bouncing step, she turned left up Gorky Street. On the right stood the building where Uncle Gideon lived in a roomy apartment, near other famous writers like Ilya Ehrenburg. Trucks growled down the street, carrying cement for the new Moskva Hotel that was rising like a noble stone temple; Lincolns and ZiS limousines swept down the avenue toward the Kremlin; a dappled horse and cart was stationed outside the Mayor’s office, a former palace. Moscow was still unformed, still that collection of villages, but she belonged here. Up the hill and over the top, Sashenka passed men and women working on the new buildings, militiamen on duty spinning their truncheons, children on their way to school, Young Pioneers with their red scarves. Before she reached the Belorussian Station, she saw the fine statue of Pushkin—and turned right down to Petrovka with its shabby stalls offering fried pirozhki.

At the office, she called the editors to sit at the T-shaped table. “Come in, comrades. Do sit! Let me hear your ideas for Comrade Stalin’s birthday issue in December.”

The days passed lightly and gracefully like new skates on glazed ice.

30

“Papa’s back!” cried Snowy.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Sashenka was in her nightie and housecoat. “Back to bed! It’s almost midnight.”

“Razum’s at the door with Daddy!”

“Daddy’s back?” Carlo, in blue pajamas, emerged all tousled from bed and stomped down the parquet corridor of the apartment.

“He’s at the door!” Snowy was jumping up and down. “Can we stay up? Please, Mama!”

“Of course!” She opened the door.

“Hello, Razum, you picked him up? He’s late as usual…”

“Stand back, no crap,” said Razum in an exaggerated voice with a blast of vodka and garlic. He stood, boots wide apart, pistol in his hand, in his usual shabby NKVD uniform. “Come on, boys, this is the place! See how they lived, see what the Party gave him, the fat boss—and see how he repaid it!”

Razum was not alone: four Chekists stood behind him, and behind them stood the janitor, sweaty and embarrassed, fiddling with his baroque bunch of a hundred keys. The Chekists filed past her into the apartment.

“Oh God, it’s started.” Sashenka’s legs almost gave way, and she leaned against the wall.

A senior officer, a narrow-faced commissar with two tabs, who was too thin for his overlarge uniform, stood in front of her. “Orders to search this apartment, orders signed by L. P. Beria, Narkom, NKVD.”

Razum elbowed this stick insect aside, so keen was he to be part of the operation. “We’ve arrested Palitsyn right at the Saratovsky Station at first light. He punched one of them, did Vanya Palitsyn.”

“That’s enough, comrade,” said the stick insect in charge.

“Where is he?” asked Sashenka eagerly. So Vanya’s train had been on time. Razum (probably excluded from the secret in case he warned his boss) had been at the station to meet him, and Vanya had been arrested then and there. Razum’s grotesque pantomiming was his desperate attempt to prove his loyalty and save his skin. Sashenka knew enough to realize Vanya would have been taken straight to the Internal Prison at what they called “the Center”: Lubianka.