*
In order to build the new, we must dismantle the old. So we believed. We must clear the wide world of this bourgeois clutter. We must throw Tsarist culture out of the steamer of modernism. We must smash, destroy, sweep away . . . until we are left with the pure white rooms of the future. The world around us was emptying. Possessions were lost to the four winds, and the Russian people themselves were cleared away. They were scattered by fear or need, abroad or to the countryside.
At the same time people disappeared within Moscow too. Typhus and dysentery and hunger gathered up many. But many vanished quietly into Cheka buildings: the garage on the Varsonofievsky, the sheds near the Church of the Resurrection and, most of all, the cellar of the Yakov company building on the Lubyanka, which became known as the ‘Ship of Death’. Since the end of August, when the Red Terror was announced, these places had started to fill up and overflow. Shooting could be heard all night long in Petrovsky Park, and the labour brigades of former people who had previously been put to work clearing rubble from the streets or feeding the furnaces at the electricity station were now given the job of digging graves.
Many prisoners were genuine opponents of the regime, of course, and there were always rumours of plots. At the Bolshoi Theatre someone took advantage of a power cut to scatter anti-Bolshevik leaflets from the balcony onto the stalls . . . there was pandemonium. The Civil War was still pressing in on us from five sides – in Siberia and the north, on the Volga, in the south, and just outside the gates of Petrograd – and there was a view that many of these prisoners were hostages of war. But we also knew that others crowded into the cellar on the Lubyanka were just the flotsam and jetsam of events. We knew that many of the secret police officers were thugs, perhaps even insane, and they fuelled their nights with cocaine.
We knew these things, but we did not discuss them as we did every other aspect of the Revolution. When you are carrying a huge, delicate and precious thing between you – when your future, all your hopes depend on it – a certain concentration is needed. ‘Don’t be distracted,’ Slavkin told us. Stray doubts, or too much emphasis on the problems of the Revolution, could distort the whole project. Unhelpful questions about the victims of the Cheka, for example, or the over-zealous actions of the Red Army in the villages, or the Bolsheviks’ ban on workers’ strikes, could poison the atmosphere and be fatal to the work of the commune. Self-control is a vital element in any communal activity; and although we failed in many areas to control ourselves sufficiently, on this topic, that of the Revolution’s dark side, we were rather successful.
I have rarely discussed this aspect of our Revolution even after leaving Russia, throughout my life in London. During my years of political activism, at my Socialist reading groups and women’s groups and marches and demos, I’ve been asked endlessly about my experiences in Russia. I mentioned already that even my memories of the October Revolution used to upset people – they weren’t the correct memories. The same went for other details of life in the Soviet Union, some of which I have never told until now. Socialists couldn’t afford to listen, they couldn’t afford to doubt. They had devoted too much already to the cause. Slavkin’s remark came to mind: ‘Revolution will redeem all these sacrifices.’ If, however, one doubted the Revolution, none of our sacrifices made any sense at all.
Now I am finally laying down the burden of silence, I am confessing, and I find myself awake in the middle of the night, feeling like a traitor to the cause. Oh, I can see already that my husband was right – the truth will carry out its surgery on my ragged old heart. I can feel already the almost sensual relief of blurting everything out, even the most shameful parts that I’ve been terrified of revealing, all my weaknesses and petty inhumanities. But what about the people who are being told, the dedicated Socialists – what effect will it have on them? And what about Sophy? I am almost eighty now, alone, and my only daughter is my greatest comfort in the world. I am afraid that this story can only cause her pain and confusion. I dread the thought that it will take her from me.
*
We slept little enough that night and by six o’clock Sonya, Slavkin and I were already in the hall of Narkompros, where Pasha worked. Slavkin thought it might be useful to have me with them as a foreigner – perhaps thinking of the magical effect my British passport had had on the militia when, long before, they had come to search the house. I thought he also knew I was good in a crisis, whereas Sonya was shaky and close to tears.
At the Narkompros we waited in a crowd of petitioners hoping for a hearing. Lunacharsky had only just moved from Petrograd to Moscow and he was impossible to see. At any rate, I knew Slavkin would insist we wait our turn. He always used to say in these situations, ‘How do we know what urgent business occupies these fellows?’
‘Oh, Gerty,’ Sonya kept whispering, ‘please, convince him that we must hurry!’
I did no such thing. However, after a few minutes Sonya spotted a colleague of Pasha’s called Bokin and flung herself on him.
‘I’m just the person you need. I’ll talk to the Commissar immediately,’ he announced, leading us into his office. Slavkin to my surprise made no objection, and we followed in the wake of Sonya’s grateful babble.
As always there was tremendous bustle and excitement at the Narkompros, people rushing in and out, banging of doors, posters laid out all over the floor, and so on. After an hour and a half of fidgeting about, I couldn’t help wondering out loud whether we had been right to believe Bokin. ‘After all, we might have been better off without pulling strings, just waiting in the queue like the other petitioners.’
Sonya jumped up, her face set. ‘I’m not sitting here any longer.’
Bokin, we discovered, was standing in the corridor in the midst of a heated discussion about poster distribution.
‘Comrade Bokin, forgive me for interrupting,’ burst in Sonya, thrusting herself between him and his colleagues, ‘but you said you could speak to the Commissar straight away! Comrade Kobelev has been wrongfully arrested by the Cheka – you know as well as I how hasty they can be in their judgements . . .’
Shame-faced, Bokin hurried us into another ante-room. ‘Here, here, just a moment, I have mentioned it to him.’
‘No! We won’t wait another “just a moment”!’ Sonya shouted. Tears were pouring down her face, she could barely speak.
‘Shh, Sonya,’ I tried to calm her, glancing at Slavkin for his approval. ‘This behaviour won’t help.’
She pushed my hand away and turned to Slavkin. ‘Nikita, how can you let this happen? They’ll shoot them!’
‘Nonsense, Sonya, don’t exaggerate,’ I told her sharply.
‘No,’ Slavkin spoke up suddenly. ‘Sonya’s right. Bokin, you could have blood on your hands if you don’t take us straight to the Commissar.’
I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘But . . . the other petitioners?’ I couldn’t help saying.
‘The other petitioners can go to hell,’ spat Sonya. ‘And why don’t you go with them? You seem to care about them more than you do about Pasha . . .’
‘Come on, Bokin, we’re following you,’ snapped Slavkin, taking Sonya’s hand. ‘Let’s go!’
They hurried off through the warren of offices.
‘Ugh, Bokin,’ said his colleague, watching their backs disappear. ‘Like a piece of puff pastry.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘You know what he promised me last week? He’d have public-health posters up in Vladimir, Kostroma and Yaroslavl by Saturday. Now I’ve just found them still in boxes a week later.’ He sighed gloomily. ‘I don’t know where Bokin is taking your friends. The Comrade Commissar isn’t even here. He’s gone back to Petrograd for a few days.’
I stared at him for a moment. An image sprang into my mind of Pasha, blindfolded, arms tied. Adrenalin gushed through my veins. Sonya was right . . .
Running through the streets, sweat trickling down my sides, gasping for breath. Where now was my principled belief in equal treatment for all?
Involuntarily I let out a groan.
‘All right, comrade?’ said the guard on the door of the Hotel National, alarmed at the sight of me. ‘Oh, it’s you. Go in.’
I staggered past him and stopped to catch my breath in the entrance hall. To my horror I realised I was about to be sick and rushed outside again.
‘Ugh,’ said the guard, making a face like a little boy.
‘I’m sorry,’ I managed to blurt out.
‘You go in and get warm,’ he said nicely. ‘I’ll cover it up, don’t worry.’
I took the stairs slowly, one at a time, and hung onto the banister. There – Pelyagin’s door. His assistant opened it just as I got there.
‘Comrade Freely!’ she gasped. ‘What’s become of you? Here, sit down.’
‘Oh,’ said Pelyagin, fussing, ‘a glass of tea, please, Rosa – warm yourself.’
‘No, comrade, please, we mustn’t waste time. I’ve come to beg for your help. Two of our commune members have been arrested by mistake.’ Breathlessly I told as much as I knew: their names, the date and place of their arrest.
‘Wait here,’ he commanded. ‘I will make enquiries.’
For a moment I was speechless. How strange, how comforting, to feel myself among friends here. In the next room Pelyagin was making telephone calls – I was too exhausted even to listen. He would tell me in a moment, I thought. With a vast sense of relief I relinquished myself to doing nothing – sipping the carrot tea that Rosa brought me and looking around me idly. Goodness, the realisation flashed into my mind, it’s Rosa Gershtein – the daughter of an acquaintance of Mr Kobelev’s. I had a sudden, vivid picture of her dressed as the Universe in Its Entirety for a New Year’s Eve party at Gagarinsky Lane during the war. How had I not recognised her before? She had been a large, stout girl and was now thin, like everyone, but her hooded eyes were the same.
‘Rosa Gershtein?’ I whispered. ‘Do you remember me – the Kobelevs’ governess?’
Her eyes snapped on mine. ‘Shhh. Of course.’
‘Forgive me, I couldn’t place you.’
‘I’m Rosa Andreeva now,’ she murmured, glancing nervously at the door. ‘Best not to mention it . . .’
Pelyagin reappeared. ‘I think we’ve found them,’ he said shortly. ‘They brought them up to Moscow and put them in a holding cell. There’s a little confusion over their identities, however. I suggest you come with me, Comrade Freely, and identify them formally. They didn’t have their identity cards when they were arrested, apparently – foolish.’ He frowned. ‘We’re on a war footing, you understand, comrade. We have to take all precautions.’
As we left the building a car drew up in front of us and for a moment I gaped at Pelyagin, astonished. I had not been inside a car since the Kobelevs’ was requisitioned; in the circumstances it seemed a bizarre, almost disgusting luxury to purr so gently and warmly along the bitter streets.
‘A treat for you, eh?’ Pelyagin said suddenly, genially, misreading my silence. ‘Perhaps one of these days we’ll go for a drive together?’
It was an ordinary day for him – I must have looked incredulous.
He frowned. ‘You don’t care to? I see . . .’
‘Oh, no – yes, of course . . . I’m grateful to you, but I don’t . . .’ I stammered.
Pelyagin pursed his lips and looked out of the window. At the Lubyanka I followed him into the building. Pelyagin strode through the hall, past the duty sergeant, motioning me to follow him, and clattered down steps. ‘Through there,’ he said shortly, pointing out a door. He put a paper into my hand. ‘Show this to the officer on duty, he will tell you what to do. They have been alerted to your arrival. Now I must be getting back to work.’
‘Thank you, thank you so much,’ I stammered. ‘Comrade, I am so indebted to you – please . . .’ I don’t know quite what I was pleading with him for, but in any case he was not in the mood to grant it. He turned his back and was gone.
I looked at the paper. It was signed by Pelyagin himself, with his title: Deputy Administrator, Cheka, Krasnopresnensky District. Cheka? Hadn’t he said he was in distribution? I pushed open the door cautiously. It opened onto a gallery with a bench, where two soldiers were sitting with their backs to me. ‘Excuse me? I’ve been sent by Comrade Pelyagin . . .’
The soldiers looked at me dully. ‘What do you want?’
I passed them the paper. ‘I’ve been sent to identify two men that you are holding mistakenly.’
‘Sez who?’ one of them drawled. My hands were sweating; they were obviously illiterate.
‘Says Comrade Emil Pelyagin.’ I spoke in my most schoolmistressy tone. ‘Would you like me to summon him and tell him that you don’t believe me?’
The younger got up wearily. ‘All right, all right. Come and have a look.’
I stepped onto the gallery and for the first time saw down into the cellar below. It was hot and smelt rotten, but it was so quiet my footsteps echoed. I looked down and to my shock saw a large number of people below, unmoving, staring up at me.
‘Gentlemen.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Comrades, please – I’m looking for Pavel Aleksandrovich Kobelev and Vladimir Vladimirovich Yakov.’
Nothing. They seemed frozen.
‘Pasha, Volodya, are you there?’ It came out as a scream, like a madwoman.
Suddenly a faint voice, ‘We’re here, we’re here . . .’
Two old men were pushing through the crowd, thin, ill – my eyes ran over them without stopping, then flicked back onto their faces: it was Pasha, exhausted, but smiling; Volodya behind him, bent over, gaunt.
‘Get up here, lads,’ said the guard. They came awkwardly up the stairs and stood before us, handcuffed. ‘Can you identify these fellows, then, comrade?’
‘Yes – Pavel Aleksandrovich Kobelev, Vladimir Vladimirovich Yakov. Pelyagin has vouched for them. You’ve been holding them wrongly! It’s a disgrace!’
‘Quite a firebrand, isn’t she, lads?’ said the guard, raising his eyebrows at them, but to my amazement he was leading them out of the room and up the stairs to the duty sergeant. As we left the cellar a few voices called out. Pasha and Volodya turned but the other soldier was up on his feet, pointing his pistol over the balcony, shouting at them to be quiet.
There was paperwork, signing this and that in triplicate. The handcuffs were removed, and they were free.
*
Back at Gagarinsky Lane the boys stripped off their clothes in the hallway to be fumigated and washed. Kolenka ran to fetch Sonya and Nikita from the Ministry. At last we were sitting around the stove preparing the best meal we could run to: slices of sausage, kasha with some onions and beetroot, rusks with raspberry jam and tea.
‘We didn’t know you were so well connected, Gerty,’ said Sonya, rather stilted. ‘I owe you an apology.’
I didn’t meet her eye. ‘No, no. It’s me who should apologise to you. You were right.’
‘You appeared like an angel in that stinking room,’ said Pasha, grinning in the old way. ‘I thought to myself, I know that accent, just like the Empress – she murders Russian like Gerty.’
I laughed, and suddenly caught Sonya’s eye, and stopped. Then Vera, who had hardly said a word since they returned, burst into tears and ran out of the room.
‘What’s the matter with her?’ asked Volodya.
‘Perhaps you should go out and have a word with her.’
‘You’ll find things a little changed around here,’ said Fyodor, into the silence. ‘The IRT is now being run with strict attention to efficiency and punctuality. You will see, here, the members’ time cards, which they have completed for yesterday; we had to speak to Vera yesterday about cutting down on the time she took to complete her chore, which was to dispose of the commune’s waste . . .’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Fedya, do shut up,’ snapped Nikita.
‘Why can’t you let him have his say?’ demanded Marina fiercely.
‘Well, you’re cheerful, all of you,’ said Pasha, after a pause.
‘If we’re not having meetings any more, then I think I’ll get some rest. Takes it out of you, being rescued.’
There was a silence, and then Nikita and Sonya shuffled to their feet and announced that as there wasn’t room for all of us to sleep in this room, they would make up beds in his workshop.
‘Won’t you freeze?’ I said stupidly, but they shook their heads, Sonya looking at me a little contemptuously, I thought. Oh, I hated her then. ‘Are you . . . are you keeping the rules, Sonya? You know it’s in the commune’s interest to be told.’
‘Oh, it’s in the commune’s interest, is it?’ mimicked Sonya.
I could barely get my words out. ‘You have a duty to tell the truth! You can’t hide it from us, you know! Are you . . . are you . . .’
‘No, we are not,’ said Sonya firmly, hands on hips. ‘All right? We are keeping the rules. How dare you even suggest such a thing! You should do the Model T for your mean, suspicious thoughts, Gerty. Don’t you trust anyone? Don’t you even trust Nikita?’
15
In retrospect this moment has the feeling of a great vessel preparing for departure. Doors slam shut, one by one, and rotating locks swivel. Safety checks are carried out, one, two, three; navigation orders given and noted down. Each member of the team is in his or her position; they know what is expected of them; it is too late, now, to deviate from the chosen course. We do not know if doubts assailed the captain of the ship.
The Vanishing Futurist Page 15