Sashenka

“He called me Comrade Snowfox. He himself knew my background and he told me he came from nobility—it didn’t matter because I was a real Bolshevik believer.”

“How dare you soil Comrade Lenin! Don’t you realize where you are? Don’t you realize what you are now? You’re as good as dust! You are sitting before the Tribunal of the Revolution: the Cheka. Just answer my questions.” He looked down at the file, massaging the paper, round and round. “How long have you known Mendel Barmakid?”

“He’s my uncle. All my life.”

“Do you believe he’s a good Communist?”

“I have always thought so.”

“You sound like you have doubts?”

“I know he’s been arrested.”

“So you know we don’t arrest people for nothing?”

“Comrade Mogilchuk, I believe in the armed wing of the Party. I believe you Chekists are, as Dzerzhinsky said, the knights of the Revolution. My own husband—”

“Accused Palitsyn. Do you think he’s such a paragon of Party-mindedness? Really? Search your memories, your conversations: was he ever really an honest Chekist?”

“Yes, he was.” Suddenly she questioned even that: what if Vanya was a Fascist spy?

“And Mendel? He was never a real Communist, was he…Comrade Snowfox”—he added with a sneer—“if I may call you that?”

“An honest Bolshevik who served five exiles, imprisonment in the Trubetskoy Bastion, ruined his health in hard labor and never joined a single deviation or opposition…”

Mogilchuk removed his glasses. Without them, he was blearily myopic. He rubbed his face and ran his hands over his red hair. She sensed how eager he was to deliver her confession to his superior. Maybe he’d impress Beria. Perhaps even the Instantzia—Comrade Stalin himself—would hear of this ardent young investigator? He replaced his glasses. “Lift Mendel’s mask, show us this jackal and disarm him for us!”

“I don’t know anything,” she said. “Mendel! I’m trying to think…”

“Think and tell me!” Mogilchuk raised his pen. “You speak and I’ll write. Did Mendel ever mention the Japanese diplomat he met in Paris?”

“No.”

“The English lord who visited the embassy in London?”

“No.”

“What foreigners did he know? Did he ever ask you to meet them? Think—scour your mind!”

So it was Uncle Mendel they wanted! Sashenka knew it was not her. They’d invited Gideon to the Lubianka to talk about Mendel. Then Vanya had been pulled into this: perhaps someone had overheard Mendel and Vanya arguing about jazz? And, through Vanya: her. Benya was clearly unconnected to Mendel. Except via her—but that was much too tenuous. No, Benya was part of something else, the case against the intellectuals—and Mogilchuk hadn’t mentioned him at all. What was clear, though, was that they needed her to denounce Mendel.

So it was Mendel who had brought this disaster upon her: it was he who had taken her children away. The mother in her was happy to sacrifice Mendel in a moment: she would do anything to see her children again. But if she invented the fact that Mendel was a Japanese spy, would they see that she was innocent and had loyally served the Party?

She went back to Vanya’s instructions: “If they’re creating a case against Mendel, they’ll want your testimony, but remember he converted you and me to Marxism, introduced us both to the Party—and each other! That confession will destroy us all! Wait until we know what they have against us.”

The investigator checked his hairdo again. “Well?”

“No, Mendel’s a decent comrade.”

“And you yourself have nothing to tell me?”

She shook her head, feeling exhausted and weak. But there was hope, she told herself. Like someone buried in a landslide, she thought there was a way through to a chink of light. Vanya would not confess either; and even if her darling Vanya was destined for the meat grinder, there was no case against her. Vanya, like any father, would die easier if he knew his wife was safe with their children! Be strong, confess nothing—and you will see Snowy and Carlo again, she told herself. After all, this had been polite enough. Perhaps they were just fishing…

“All right, you want to play games with us?” said Mogilchuk quite calmly. “You must realize, Comrade Snowfox, that I’m an intellectual like you are, like your uncle Gideon. You may have seen my stories published under the name M. Sluzhba? Well, I just like to talk to people. That’s my way. I’ve given you every chance but you’re going to get a nasty surprise if you don’t start to talk.” He picked up the Bakelite phone and dialed a number. “It’s Mogilchuk…No, she won’t…Right!” He replaced the phone. “Come with me.”

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