Sashenka

Then she’d heard the car bouncing up the drive.

“Papa’s home!” Sashenka said, sitting up.

“Open the gates!” yelled the driver.

“All right, coming,” she heard a man answer. She recognized his voice. It was one of the service staff, the old Cossack in charge of the horses.

The gates swung open. Through them, she could see the little guardhouse at the end of the communal drive with its figures in blue uniforms. They were not really guarding her house—Vanya was quite important now but some big names, Molotov and Zhdanov, both Politburo members, and Marshal Budyonny and Uncle Mendel, lived down the same lane.

The car, a green ZiS, based on the American Lincoln with a long hood and a sleek body, swung through the gates, its creaky suspension gasping. It threw up clouds of dust as it came, weaving between the chickens, ducks and barking dogs. The children’s pony, tied at the gate, watched impassively.

“Look, Comrade Bunny-Rabbit, it’s Daddy!”

“I only want to kiss Mummy!” insisted Carlo, but he jumped down anyway and rushed to hug his father.

Sashenka followed him down the wooden steps. “Vanya, what a nice surprise! You must be boiling in those boots!” But the wearing of boots at one’s desk, even in high summer—and the Moscow plain was hot that May—was more about the military machismo of the Bolsheviks than comfort or utility. Comrade Stalin wore boots at all times.

Carlo flung himself into Vanya’s arms. His father gathered him up and whirled him round and round. Carlo squeaked with glee.

“How was the parade?” asked Sashenka, watching son and father, who were so alike.

“We missed you on the VIP stand,” replied her husband. “The new planes were beautiful. I saw Mendel—and my new boss with his Georgians. Satinov said he would come by later…”

“Next year I’ll try to organize things better,” she promised. She had given Carolina the morning off to see the parade but the nanny was already back. At first, Sashenka had regretted missing the show in Red Square that demonstrated Soviet power, with its ranks of shock workers, soldiers and athletes in gorgeous uniforms, and its display of planes and tanks. The might of the army filled her with pride at what they had achieved since 1917, and she enjoyed greeting the leaders beside her in the VIP seats. But this year she’d wanted to be home with her children at the dacha.

“Is Uncle Hercules coming for the party?” asked Carlo. “I want to play with him!”

“Papochka says he’s coming but you’ll probably be asleep, Bunny.”

Vanya squeezed Sashenka’s narrow waist and took her face between his huge hands and kissed her.

“You’re so lovely, darling,” he said. “How are you?”

She slipped out of his grasp. “I’m exhausted, Vanya, after the women’s group and the plans for the school and orphanage. There was a problem at the printer’s, some idiotic typographical error—”

“Nothing serious?” Sashenka saw his eyes narrow and hastened to reassure him. The Terror was over but even a proofing mistake could be dangerous. Vanya and Sashenka had not forgotten the fate of the typesetter who had put “Solin” (Man of Salt) instead of “Stalin” (Man of Steel).

“No, no, nothing like that, and then Carolina burned the pirozhki and Carlo sobbed…What’s all that?” she asked, pointing at the boxes in the car.

“Is it a present for me?” asked Carlo.

“Wait and see,” answered Vanya, laughing. He unhooked the leather strap across his barrel chest that was linked to his belt and gun holster, tossing everything to his driver, Razum. Throwing off his blue tunic, he whirled it round his head to reveal a white shirt and suspenders holding up blue trousers with red stripes tucked into boots. Returning to the car, he helped Razum, who wore the same uniform, to pull out three large parcels wrapped up in blue paper.

Razum was an old boxer with a broken nose. He was a real veteran with a scar on his right cheek that he claimed to have received from General Skuro himself in the Civil War (though Vanya joked that he actually got it by falling drunkenly through a pane of glass).

Placing the two smaller parcels by the car, Vanya and Razum slowly carried the third toward the house.

“Papochka!” Their five-year-old daughter, Snowy, holding a pink cushion, ran out of the house, in nothing but shorts, to hug her father. Vanya lifted her up in his arms and kissed her forehead.

“Look at me! Watch this, Daddy!” she said, waving her favorite cushion “friend” in the air.

“We’re always watching you,” replied Sashenka. “Show Daddy your cushion dance.”

Snowy was tall for her age, slim and very pale, hence her nickname, with blue eyes and rosy lips. Sashenka could not quite believe that such a beautiful creature had come from her and Vanya, although she looked a little like Sashenka’s father, the “former person” Samuil Zeitlin, ex-baron, ex-bloodsucker. Sashenka felt a sudden pang of sadness and could not help wondering where he was now. No one knew if he was among the living—and a Bolshevik did not ask.