Sashenka

Fly away, black swallow,
Fly along the Alazani River,
Bring us back the news
Of the brothers gone to war…

They sang more songs: hymns, and the Odessan thieves’ songs “Murka” and “From Odessa Jail.” They crooned Stalin’s favorite gangster tunes: “They’ve buried the gold, the gold, the gold…” Sashenka wondered if Stalin was choosing the songs to put everyone at their ease: the Orthodox hymns for the Russians, the harmonies for the Georgians, Odessan numbers for the Jews—yes, that was Mendel’s deep voice enriching “From Odessa Jail.”

“We need some hot women here!” said Beria. “But I’ve drunk too much. I don’t think I could even…”

“Comrade Beria, observe the proprieties! There are ladies present,” said Stalin, with mock gravity and a slight smirk. “Shall we play the gramophone? Do you have records? Some dances?”

Sashenka brought out their collection. Thank God, Satinov always gave them a Georgian gramophone record for May Day and November 8, so Stalin found exactly what he wanted. He stood at the gramophone and played the records; sometimes he raised his hands and made Caucasian dance steps but mostly he directed the festivities.

The Georgians pushed back the sofa. Sashenka rolled up the carpet and when she got up she found Satinov and Egnatashvili dancing the lezginka to her. She preferred the tango, the foxtrot and the rumba but she knew the Caucasian moves too, so she made the dainty steps while first Satinov, then Beria and Egnatashvili set to her.

“Comrade Hercules, you can really dance,” said Stalin approvingly. “I haven’t seen anyone dance so well since I was a boy…Where’s your family from?”

“Borzhomi,” answered Hercules Satinov.

“Not far from my hometown,” said Stalin, restarting the record. This was Georgian talk but Sashenka agreed with Stalin: Satinov danced gracefully. His dark eyes shone, his steps were lithe and agile, and his hands were elegant and expressive. He held her firmly, while Beria’s hand squeezed her and he put his face too close. His lips were so fat it seemed as if there was too much blood in them. Presently, she felt tired and stood back to watch. She found herself next to the gramophone where Stalin was laying out the records.

Sashenka felt happy suddenly, and at ease, almost too relaxed. She’d been terrified when first she saw Stalin, right there in her garden. But he had relaxed them all and now she was fighting against her instinct to flirt and chatter. She was overexcited and probably drunk on that heavy Georgian red. Several times, crazy things were on the tip of her tongue. Be careful, Sashenka, she ordered herself, this is Stalin! Remember the last few years—the meat grinder! Beware!

Waves of devotion rolled over her for this tough yet modest man, so decent yet so pitiless toward his enemies. But she sensed her cloying devotion would irritate him, make him uneasy. She wanted to ask him to dance. What if he was longing to dance with her? But what if such an offer was insolent or made him uncomfortable? Yet she wanted to dance with him and he must have seen it on her lips.

“I don’t dance, Sashenka, because I can’t hold a woman with my arm.” His left arm was a little shorter than his right—it was why he held it stiffly. They stood beside the piano and she was aware of the tense silence, of the danger that surrounded this extraordinary man.

“I adore this music, Comrade Stalin.”

“Music relaxes the beast in a man,” said Stalin. He looked about him. “Are you and Comrade Palitsyn happy with this dacha?”

“Oh yes, Comrade Stalin,” she answered. “So happy.”

“I hope so. May I look around?”

Beria and the others watched but did not follow them, and Sashenka was immensely proud and stirred that Stalin was talking only to her.

“We’re so grateful for it—and today we received the refrigerator. Thank you for the Party’s trust!”

“We have to reward the Party’s responsible workers.” Stalin looked into Vanya’s study. “Is it warm enough in winter? I like the study, very airy. Are there enough bedrooms? Do you like the kitchen?”

Oh yes, Sashenka loved everything about it. She fought her giddiness, her feelings of joy and freedom as an unspeakable but powerful thought crossed her mind. She was thinking of her father, Samuil Zeitlin. Couldn’t she ask Comrade Stalin now? She was so intimate with him at that moment: how could he refuse her anything? She could tell he admired her as a new Soviet woman.

“Comrade Stalin…,” she began.