The Incorrigible Optimists Club

by Jean-Michel Guenassia

  Sacha removed his khaki tunic and handed it to Igor.

  ‘Be careful with it. I hope your hands are clean. There mustn’t be any stain or crease on it.’

  Igor took the jacket. Sacha held on to it and drew Igor towards him. ‘I need to speak to you in private,’ he whispered in his ear. ‘It’s important.’

  Nadejda passed them a plate with cream cheese cake cut into squares. Igor walked away and placed the jacket on a chair.

  ‘I don’t know how you manage to make such a light cheesecake. Anna, you should take the recipe.’

  ‘The hardest thing is finding some cheese,’ replied Nadejda.

  ‘How can we change this country when there are people who are constantly moaning? You’re not the worst off,’ said Sacha.

  ‘Have you heard me complain? Last week, I worked seventy-five hours at the hospital. Igor worked longer. In appalling conditions. We’re not paid any more. We don’t ask for money. This is the first evening we’ve spent together for a month. When people say they can’t find anything to eat, they’re not being anti-Communist, it’s just that no one understands what’s going on. There’s nothing to buy anywhere. You queue for hours for nothing. Before the Revolution, people could buy cheese for themselves. Nowadays, even if you have the money, there’s none left. We’re weary, Sacha.’

  ‘There are problems of supply, the government is addressing them. We’ll succeed.’

  ‘Supposing we all sit down?’ Irina suggested. ‘The children are getting rowdy.’

  Assisted by Piotr and Ludmila, Nadejda brought in the three matzos, each of them covered with an embroidered napkin, and placed them on the tray beside a platter containing hard-boiled eggs, dishes laden with sticks of celery, black radishes, some dark-coloured apple purée, the knuckle of veal with the grilled meat and a bowl of water to which she added salt. Once they had all sat down, there were three empty places.

  ‘How many are we this evening?’ asked Sacha, as he counted the number of chairs.

  ‘There are two who are absent,’ Igor explained.

  ‘I thought one only kept one place for the poor man.’

  ‘Last year, Boris and Lev were with us.’

  ‘They are where they should be,’ Sacha replied. ‘If they haven’t anything to feel guilty about, they’ll be set free.’

  ‘Shall we say the prayer?’ Irina intervened.

  ‘These two places must be removed.’

  ‘But Sacha, they’re for Boris and Lev!’ Irina insisted. ‘It’s the tradition for those who are absent. So that they will come back and be with us again. Where they are, they’re forbidden to celebrate Seder.’

  ‘Is your head made of stone or are you stupid? We’re not allowed to gather together this evening! These medieval practices are forbidden! These matzos are forbidden! And what’s more, you’re showing solidarity with counter-revolutionaries!’

  ‘Can you tell us why they in particular have been arrested?’ asked Igor. ‘A paediatrician and a music teacher! What abominable crimes have they committed? And the hundreds of others who disappear at the drop of a hat?’

  ‘Do you think I’ve come to risk my own and my wife’s necks to take lessons from a gang of retrograde fanatics?’

  ‘Why do you insult us, Sacha? I know what you do at the Ministry and you have nothing to be proud of.’

  ‘I work for my country and for the triumph of the Revolution!’

  ‘Please, let us say the prayer, my children,’ said Irina in a quavering voice.

  ‘Remove these two places, mother.’

  ‘You’ve gone crazy!’

  ‘Boris has confessed. He’s been sentenced!’

  ‘I don’t believe it! He’s a doctor!’ Igor cried. ‘He’s done nothing apart from his job.’

  ‘He’s guilty. And so is Lev!’

  ‘Get out of my house immediately!’ Irina yelled as she rose to her feet. ‘I’m ashamed to have a son like you! Get out! I don’t ever want to see you again! Both of you, out!’

  Sacha stood up. He nodded to Anna who walked over to him. He helped her on with her parka and the shawl that went on top of it. He put on his own overcoat and left without a glance. They heard the door close.

  ‘Let us recite the Haggadah, my children,’ said Irina. ‘And let us pray for our family.’

  2

  The Tarnovsky Hospital did not have a good reputation. Not just because it forced the prostitutes to be treated for venereal diseases in the grim building and because the militia brought the tramps, the senile old men and drunks they picked up in the streets of Leningrad to its night dispensary, but also because they had built a vast morgue there capable of accommodating for five or six months the corpses of those who could not be buried because of the frozen ground. It’s true that it was not a pleasant place, what with its wooden huts from the 1930s, which were draughty and heated by a stove whose pipe ran the length of the tiled roof and only managed to maintain a temperature of fifteen degrees. People spoke very disparagingly about it, but there were no more deaths there than in the city’s other hospitals. There was a recently constructed three-storey concrete building, nicknamed the Palace, which, from the outside, looked like a prison because of the bars over the windows. It accommodated those dignitaries or their families who benefited from preferential treatment and were given private rooms, central heating and different food from the rest of the hospital. Whereas the other buildings were arranged according to their area of speciality, this one was for general practice and treated eminent party members. Working there procured considerable advantages, among them benefiting from the abundant good meals. Igor Markish had begun to train there as a heart specialist. The war had prevented him from acquiring his degree, but he had been appointed to the hospital because there were very few medical specialists.

  The arrest of Professor Etinguer had spread consternation among the nursing staff. Four men in MVD uniform had stopped him for questioning as he left the operating theatre and had carted him off without giving him time to change his clothes. For a week, his family had no news of him. Larissa Gorchkov, the director of the hospital, was not easily deterred. She telephoned the Ministry for an explanation. She received the worst sort of response: ‘Jacob Etinguer is not known in this department.’

  A delegation of doctors went to call on a district secretary of the party whose life Erlinguer had saved following a severe heart attack. They were stunned when they learnt that the professor had been arrested on accusation of murder, several patients having died in his care. However much they swore that these were natural deaths, some of them dating back three or four years, they were told the professor had just confessed. The matter was in the hands of the Public Prosecutor. Detailed articles in Pravda explained that a diabolical plot hatched by doctors had just been uncovered. Several dozen doctors, all of them Jews, had been arrested. They were accused, with supporting evidence, of having disposed of a number of executives and of planning to get rid of comrade Stalin himself. A major trial was in preparation. Over two entire pages, Pravda printed the indignant reactions of foreign dignitaries and sister parties all over the world who applauded the arrest of this group of Zionist criminals.

  Igor was taking a break and drinking a cup of hot tea when he was informed that a woman was calling him on the telephone very urgently. He went down to the ground floor. The nurse on the admissions desk handed him the receiver.

  ‘Yes, hello.’

  ‘Are you Igor Markish?’ a faint, sharp, nasal voice asked.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’m advising you that you are about to be arrested.’

  ‘What? What are you saying?’

  ‘Tomorrow. At the hospital.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re a doctor, a Jew and a colleague of Professor Etinguer’s.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing.’

  ‘Neither have the others. They have been arrested. They will be sentenced and shot. The unlucky ones will be sent to Siberia.’

  �
�Why are you warning me?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. You have a slight head start. Take special care. Escape via Lake Ladoga.’

  ‘I can’t abandon my wife and my children.’

  ‘Will you be any help to them once you’ve been shot?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘It’s not important.’

  ‘How am I to know it’s not a trap?’

  ‘The MVD doesn’t need a ruse or an excuse to arrest you. If you stay, you’re nothing but an idiot! Think of your family!’

  The call ended. Igor’s face was distraught. He was trembling. The nurse came over to him.

  ‘Is there anything wrong, Doctor Markish? May I help you?’

  ‘I’m going to be arrested!’

  Igor collapsed on a chair and held his head in his hands.

  In the telephone box on Vitebsk station, Sacha relaxed the pressure of his left hand, which was squeezing his nostrils. He took out the small spoon he had placed at the back of his mouth, unwound the scarf that he had wrapped round the receiver, and replaced the phone. He breathed in several times and remained lost in thought for a moment. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the handset. He readjusted his uniform and left the public call box. He glanced around the concourse. He loathed this Art Nouveau style, these floral volutes, the exaggeratedly intricate gilt lighting, the cold colours of the frescoes. He pretended to admire the over-embellished décor and the Eiffel-style glass roof and he gave it a complete panoramic tour. Nothing unusual claimed his attention. Outside, the storm grew more intense.

  At the same moment, Igor left the main hospital building. He was wearing only his white coat and he shivered at finding himself out in the open again. Heavy flakes of snow were falling. He walked through the hospital in search of his wife. Nadejda was employed as a midwife in the maternity unit. She was in the labour ward. Igor paused at the door for a few moments. A woman’s cries came from inside. He waited for almost an hour, unsure about what attitude he should adopt. Nadejda was surprised to find him there.

  ‘Are you not well, Igor? You’re very pale.’

  ‘I need to speak to you, Nadia.’

  Despite the cold, he dragged her outside. They sheltered beneath a porch roof. Igor told her about the telephone conversation he had just had.

  ‘Do you think it’s serious?’

  ‘What do you mean? That they’re playing a joke on me?’

  ‘I feel so confused that… You didn’t recognize this person?’

  ‘I don’t know whether it was a man or a woman. Perhaps it was a patient I’ve been looking after and who is warning me out of gratitude.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘If I stay, they’ll arrest me. I must get out!’

  ‘I’m leaving with you, Igor.’

  ‘And the children?’

  ‘They have their grandmother. She’ll look after them.’

  ‘If we both escape, they’ll be put in an orphanage. Do you know what that means?’

  ‘Let’s leave with them.’

  ‘Nadia, we won’t get through with the children. It’s minus thirty at night in the Gulf of Karelia. They wouldn’t survive. A man on his own might manage it. Together, it’s bound to fail.’

  ‘Are you going to abandon me?’

  ‘Suggest any other solution to me. If I succeed in getting to Finland, we can bide our time. See how things work out.’

  ‘We know what will happen. I want to come with you.’

  ‘You can’t do that to the children, Nadia. Think of them. If you’re there, they’ll understand why I left. If we leave together, we’re abandoning them. They can’t lose their mother at this age.’

  ‘I beg you, Igor, don’t leave me. I would die. I need you so much.’

  She threw herself against him. He hugged her. They remained like this for a long time. Tears were streaming down Nadia’s face.

  ‘You must go back to your department, Nadia. As though nothing has happened. I’m going home. I’ll take some clothes, some dry biscuits, some dried herring and I’ll leave straight away. This evening, you’ll tell the neighbours that I haven’t come back. You’ll be anxious. Tomorrow, when they don’t find me here, they’ll come and look for me at our home. You’ll have to disassociate yourself and show your disapproval, otherwise you’ll lose your job. Don’t hesitate to denounce me to the local committee. If you don’t hear from me within three months, open divorce proceedings.’

  ‘Don’t ask me to do that. I wouldn’t be capable.’

  ‘You must be strong, Nadia. Think of yourself. Think of the children. They’re the most important.’

  ‘I don’t care about the children! Igor, I implore you!’ she murmured.

  He grabbed her vigorously by her forearms and, in his despair, he shook her.

  ‘You must promise me you’ll do it! I’m going so that you can be safe. Tomorrow, Ivan, the male nurse who works in my department, will deliver a message to my mother. He lives five minutes away from her. Afterwards, try not to see her or help her again. You must sever the links. And with all my family. It’s the only way to extricate yourself. It won’t be easy. I would never have believed it could end up like this. The only thing I can say to you is that I’ve never loved anyone other than you. You know this, my love, you’re the only woman in my life. There will never be anyone else. And I swear to you that if I survive, we’ll see each other again one day.’

  There are moments in a life that no man imagines he will have to suffer, such as making the woman he loves weep, brutally pushing her away, having to extricate himself when she is clinging to him, and not turning round when he hears her screaming and collapsing on the snow. Her cries and her tears tore him apart and froze inside him. Those are what he hears throughout his sleepless nights.

  3

  It was a vast, anonymous, three-storey block in the northern suburbs of Leningrad, ten minutes from the Devyatkino métro station. On a metal panel on the wall at the entrance read two lines: ‘Municipal Department – entry forbidden’. It had been rebuilt at the end of the war. No one would think of entering it or asking what went on there. Young people could be seen going in and leaving. They didn’t have the usual gaiety and exuberance of students who shout and call out to one another at college doors. These were silent and discreet. It was an administrative building to judge by the red flag that hung at the end of a mast. For reasons unknown, a white band split the flag outside into two halves, which was why the place was nicknamed ‘the Red Banner’, since it resembled the decoration of the same name. You entered through triple security doors. The interior was as austere as a Benedictine monastery and was partitioned like a prison. There were metal gates everywhere. Officials dressed in the uniform of the Ministry of Internal Affairs stood behind reinforced concrete sentry boxes. They checked the passes against their huge ledgers, and opened and closed the iron gates on arrival and departure by means of electric buttons, which they activated after twice carrying out inspections. Some people, though not many, were astonished on arrival by this wealth of precautions and pointed out to the wardens that they came past morning and evening and that it was pointless checking their authorizations every time. The wardens said nothing. Perhaps they were deaf or dumb? The students came to understand that the very first rule was silence. Delays sometimes meant that students’ names were not mentioned on documents. The official made a phone call to someone who either authorized entry or did not. You quickly adapted to this rule. It meant time was wasted, but it guaranteed absolute security. Time was of no importance here. Security, on the other hand, was their profession. You entered classrooms according to the same procedure. The teacher entered by a different door to the one the students used, activated from inside, which implied that there was a system of internal corridors which doubled the amount of access routes.

  The day began with one hour of gym. The lessons started at seven in the morning and ended at midday, with a fifteen-minute break at ten o’clock. The students took their meals
in a dining hall situated in the basement. The lessons, which were often practical exercises, started again at one o’clock and ended at seven in the evening. After dinner, there was another hour of physical activity. On Sundays the students were allowed to revise. In this place, the principles that governed the rest of the country did not apply. The staff was huge. The means were limitless. They were in an institute run by the Ministry of Internal Affairs. There were two others, one in Moscow and one in Kiev. The Leningrad institute was the only one to include on its study programme such important subjects as propaganda, disinformation and manipulation. These were regulated by the Ministry’s celebrated second division, which concerned itself with internal enemies. To be entitled to this teaching, you had to have passed highly selective exams during the first two years. This was the reason why the Red Banner had its reputation for excellence. Only the best students were given access to the best professors, who were not teachers, but experienced practitioners, some of whom carried out their principal activity in the south and west wings of the building. The top students in each year were entitled to express where they would like to be posted. With a little luck or a lot of connections, they would join the third or fourth bureau of this second division. The Propaganda department was considered the most prestigious. This meant that they never left the building. They entered and left by another door and would work under the authority of their professors until the day they replaced them.

  Eight soldiers in uniform, and five men and three women between the ages of twenty and thirty were waiting for the photomontage class to begin. The door at the back opened, and Commandant Sacha Markish entered. Well disciplined, the students got to their feet, stood to attention and saluted. At the back of the room, a Staff-Sergeant operated a slide projector, showing slides which corresponded to the point Sacha, on the podium, had reached in his talk. With a wooden stick, Sacha indicated the details that should be taken note of.

  ‘… Your work will consist in eliminating the enemies of the people from all photographs in which they appear: class or group photos, family reunions or banquets. We’re not interested in individual photographs. They are destroyed. The person who has been sentenced must vanish completely. Not the slightest trace of his existence must remain. In order to falsify a photo, you can splice two images from the negatives and make them into one before enlarging them on the positive. It’s a delicate operation that requires negatives having the same exposure and the same contrast. You have to create a game of hide-and-seek to make up the two images. On the first negative, you colour in the person whom you wish to remove, on the second: you do the reverse. You expose the positive with the two negatives one after the other; since the coloured portions have no effect on the negative, the two collated parts will be brought together. In this way you remove from the photo the person who shouldn’t be there. The film used should have a coarser texture than the original. It will conceal the fine grain and the image will be clearer. In certain cases, I will teach you how to use sulphite solutions; it’s simpler. Frequently, we don’t have the negatives. The easiest way is to work on the developed photograph. With a sharp scalpel, you make an incision, meticulously following the contours of the person or face to be got rid of. In order to stop yourself shaking, you can place your hand on a pencil laid sideways. With the help of a tube of glue, you superimpose the cut-outs. You just need to put a little paint or ink on the joined up bits and background for the illusion to be complete. Before sticking it down, colour the cutout paper thoroughly. If the person needs to be placed against a grey or black setting, you should paint the background with an identical colour, otherwise you will have a white edge that will be detectable. For a good job and to hide imperfections, use the airbrush. A compressor squirts a light drop of ink through a spray gun operated by a compressed air cylinder whose flow you control. The paint should be thinned as much as possible and the pressure must be as low as possible. Once again, you have to go from the palest to the darkest colour and not hesitate to use a mask. The finer the spray, the better the result. This enables you to obtain impressions of aging, staining, shadows, light effects or movement. It is recommended that you apply several layers and shade them off. You can also spray the person or object on the photo directly, but you need practice. You will obtain slightly ethereal and unreal effects. We shall see how this can be significant in some cases. It is recommended you wear a mask and glasses to avoid spray projected by the solvents. The finishing-off near the borders and joins must be done by hand and with a brush. It is vital that this retouched photograph be converted into a negative. There is a twofold benefit: this will enable it to be reproduced ad infinitum, and it will prove its existence. If you have done everything meticulously and skilfully, no one can prove the negative is false. Why?…’