Sashenka

“Silence, Volya! Bed now!” said Snowy’s father, his eyes flashing. He did not use her real name unless he was deadly earnest. “Sashenka, we’ve got to give that child some discipline…”

“Who’s coming, do you think?” Sashenka asked Vanya, with a twinge of concern.

“Maybe Lavrenti Pavlovich…”

“I think I’ll be going. It’s been a nice evening,” said Mendel, whose wife and daughter had left hours ago. Sashenka noticed he was one of the few leaders who still sported an ill-fitting bourgeois suit and tie, never having embraced the Stalin Party tunic. Mendel pulled out his pillbox and placed a nitroglycerin tablet under his tongue. “Let me call my driver,” he muttered to himself. “Can’t take those flashy Georgians and all those toasts! Ugh. Too late!”

A convoy of cars drew up at the gate, their powerful beams illuminating the greens and reds of the lush garden. A pall of dust darkened the starry sky, reaching for the moon. The ghosts in the white suits opened the gates to reveal several black Lincolns and a new ZiS.

The piano tinkled from inside, there was laughter from a nearby dacha, and Sashenka saw a blond athletic figure in the familiar blue and red-striped uniform jump out of the front car.

Satinov called out in Georgian: “Gagimajos!” And in Russian: “‘It’s Egnatashvili and he’s brought some food!” Sashenka could see that Egnatashvili was carrying a crate of wine. Guards in blue uniforms materialized, as if from nowhere, at the gates.

“Come on in, comrades,” said Sashenka. “Satinov said you might join us.”

Comrade Egnatashvili’s eyes gleamed up at her in the dark, eyes narrowed in warning, as she moved forward to welcome the new guests, hand outstretched—and then froze.

6

Lavrenti Beria, round faced and olive skinned, in baggy white trousers and an embroidered Georgian blouse, was carrying a box full of plates. He was, as Sashenka knew well, the new People’s Commissar for Internal Affairs, boss of the secret police, the NKVD.

“Lavrenti Pavlovich! Welcome!” Vanya stepped down from the veranda. “Let me help you with that…”

“I’ll take it in, don’t you worry,” Beria said, with a glance behind him.

Sashenka saw Vanya stiffen to attention—and then the night went quiet and next door the singing and the clink of glasses hushed.

A statue seemed to be standing right there in her garden.

Comrade Stalin, his feline, almost oriental face smiling and flushed and still singing a Georgian song, appeared at the foot of the steps in a white summer tunic, wide trousers and light brown boots embroidered in red thread. The moon seemed to throw him his own spotlight.

“We heard Comrade Satinov was going to a party given by Comrade Palitsyn,” said Stalin in a soft Georgian accent, chuckling like a mischievous satyr. “Then we heard he had invited Comrade Egnatashvili. Comrade Beria said he was invited too. This meant only Comrade Stalin was left out and Comrade Stalin wanted to chat to Comrade Satinov. So I appealed to my comrades, admitting I didn’t know Comrade Palitsyn well enough to crash his party. ‘Let’s put it to a vote,’ I said. The vote went my way, and my comrades decided they would invite me. But I come at my own risk. I won’t hold it against you, comrade hosts, if you send me home again. But we do bring some wine and Georgian delicacies. Comrades, where’s the table?”

Satinov stepped forward.

“Comrade Stalin, you already know Comrade Palitsyn a little,” said Satinov, “and this is his wife, Sashenka, whom you may remember…”

“Please come in, Comrade Stalin, what an honor,” said Sashenka, finally finding her voice. She had a terrifying and un-Bolshevik urge to curtsy as she used to at the Smolny before the portrait of the Dowager Empress. She was not quite sure how she managed the steps down to the garden, yet somehow she approached Stalin—smaller, older, sallower and much wearier than she remembered, his left arm held in stiffly. He had, she noticed, a slight potbelly, and his tunic’s pockets were roughly darned. But then she supposed giants did not care about such things.

Stalin seemed amazed at the effect he had—and yet he reveled in it. He took her hand and kissed it in the old Georgian way, looking up at her with eyes of honey and gold.

“Comrade Snowfox, you’re beautifully dressed.”

He remembers my old Party alias from St. Petersburg! What a memory! How embarrassing! How flattering! she thought in confusion.

“It is lucky that you and your magazine are teaching Soviet women the art of dressing. Your dress is very pretty,” he continued, climbing the steps.

“Thank you, Comrade Stalin.” She reminded herself not to mention that her dress had been made abroad.

“For once, comrades, the Party has appointed the right person to the right job…” Stalin laughed and the others laughed too, even Mendel. “Come and join us, Comrades Satinov and Palitsyn. And you, Comrade Mendel.” Sashenka noticed that Stalin did not show much enthusiasm for the austere Mendel.