The Birobidzhan Affair: A Novel

by Marek Halter

  Now, surveying the ruins of her apartment, Marina shuddered at the mere thought of lifting a stone or a plank of wood.

  Besides, what was there to salvage? At most, there was a suitcase of clothes, some books, and a few remnants of an unhappy past, unless you counted the pile of film scripts, but the movies had already been shot, and she had only played minor parts in them anyway. It was certainly nothing worth picking through bricks for.

  To the contrary, she had been living like a recluse in that room for too many years not to feel some relief at seeing it disappear in a puff of smoke. Its four walls had been no less than a prison. Life in the communal apartment was terrifying. The slightest thing was enough to start an argument: a shopping bag left in the corridor, ten minutes too long spent in the bathroom, or lights left on in the kitchen. Marina had never left anything valuable in her room. She had taken care not to get too attached to the place for fear that it might one day fall into the hands of the NKVD heavies. No man had ever come back to sleep with her or had even made love to her there for the same reason.

  Over those ten long years, she’d had a few lovers, if that wasn’t too grand a phrase for her furtive encounters. There’d been some liaisons and some dubious flings that had soon been forgotten. She never stayed long enough to see the guys asleep beside her. The sleep of the sated lover was too vivid a reminder of the little movie theater at the Kremlin.

  She went to lie down on a bench in the Botanical Gardens nearby. Putting her bag under her head, she rested her hands gently on her stomach. All she had in the world was there on that bench. Her life, her destiny, depended on her body, the grubby clothes on her back, and the old leather bag under her dusty hair. In the bag were her papers, her food stamps, a pair of torn gloves, a notebook, two books, a shawl rolled up in a ball, and a few items of makeup that she hadn’t had use for in a while.

  The clouds were gathering. There wasn’t a breath of air. It was going to be another muggy day. The fire was still smoldering, and smoke from it was hanging over the area. People had stopped poking at the bricks and fragments of plaster. The families that Marina had rubbed shoulders with for such a long time were wandering off to find a new place of refuge. Some of them had dug carts out of the rubble. Others were pushing baby carriages or creaky bicycles, anything that could be used to carry something. Marina could have joined them. They would have accepted her as they accepted anyone who had nothing left. She didn’t move. She didn’t even think of showing herself or saying goodbye. She wanted only to rest.

  In the years to come, she often remembered that moment as the moment that decided the rest of her life. And despite what she had reason to fear at the time, it began with a wonderful stroke of luck.

  The storm that had been brewing broke midmorning. Marina had eventually fallen asleep on the bench. She was awakened by a clap of thunder. Everything came back to her in a flash: the bomb, the fire, her now nonexistent room. The first drops of a warm rain beat down on the avenues of the Botanical Gardens. Within minutes, it was a deluge. Marina didn’t have time to go back to the boulevard to take cover in a doorway.

  The sudden coolness of the storm made her shiver. She was only wearing a light cotton dress, nothing pretty or elegant, just functional. Taking her shawl out of her bag, she wrapped it around her shoulders. She felt quite desolate and couldn’t think straight, but she was going to have to make up her mind. What was she going to do? Where would she go?

  That’s how, caught in the torrential downpour, she came up with the idea of going to the Mosfilm studios. She hadn’t set foot in the studios for two months. In June, Grigori Mikhaylovich Kozintsev had given her a part in a prestigious film called Dark Is the Night. The role had given her a chance to prove her worth, the first she had had in a long time. Kozintsev was well respected. Although there was no escaping from censorship, his films were still ambitious. Marina knew that he had been impressed with her. He liked theatre as much as cinema and had discussed it with her.

  “Where’s your ambition, Marina Andreyeva? Your place is in the theatre. You’re pushing thirty. It’s a crime to waste such potential!”

  She had been spared having to reply by the roar of the Luftwaffe bombers in the sky over Moscow. Filming had been suspended.

  Now she was considering going to the studios not to act but to find some clothes, maybe even a bed. If she was lucky, the bombs wouldn’t have blown it all to smithereens.

  Mosfilm was on a huge estate in the Ramenki District, not far from a bend in the Moskva River. It boasted springs, streams, wooded hillocks, bridges, dachas, and mock-up Ural barns where the outdoor scenes were shot. The sets were sheltered by massive hangars. A crew of stage designers would scurry around inside, putting up and taking down set apartment walls, not to mention street and stable façades. The set could accommodate trucks, horse-drawn carriages, and buses. They had even recreated a tractor workshop.

  However, the Ramenki District was on the western outskirts of Moscow, the area hardest hit by the bombings. The closer Marina got to the studios, the more she feared that the whole place might have been reduced to rubble.

  But no, everything had been spared. No bomb or shell had grazed a single building or tree on the estate. The metal barrier at the main entrance had been padlocked shut but, like anyone who had ever wanted to bypass the security checks, Marina knew other ways in.

  She went around the estate and slipped over an old wooden gate behind a lilac hedge. A lane snaked around the water features, leading to the hangars. These were empty except for some hastily discarded rubbish. The porticoes had been taken down. There wasn’t a single wire left on the lighting rigs or a single prop in sight, not even a chair.

  Marina headed for the administrative building. The cafeteria had been emptied like everywhere else. In fact, it had been so thoroughly cleared that nobody had felt the need to lock the doors. She hesitated. Everything was so quiet. How long had it been since she had heard that kind of silence?

  There were a number of offices and cubbyholes on the ground floor. At least she would have a roof over her head. A rug or even a few boxes would do for a bed. She was tired enough to sleep on the floor.

  Her footsteps echoed on the tiles. There was no light in the hallway or on the broad staircase. She pushed open some of the doors. Here and there, empty wardrobes and the odd table had been left behind. She went up to the second floor, the so-called director’s floor. What she saw there took her quite by surprise.

  Once cluttered with drawing boards, folders, black desks, and armchairs, the long office had been cleared like everywhere else. But there was a room at the back of it with a sink, a clothes rail, and a narrow couch where the directors would go when they needed a rest. Some of them spent the occasional odd night there. The alcove had a reputation for guarding countless secrets. The little bed was still there with a kilim rug over it. The photos of old sets hadn’t been taken down from the walls. There were piles of books and files on the shelves. An electric samovar sat on a low table with some glasses and a small towel. There were curtains in the narrow window. Marina drew them shut. Lying down on the couch, she closed her eyes and fell asleep listening to the silence.

  A flash of light darted across her eyelids. Waking up with a start, she found herself in total darkness. She felt as though she had only been asleep for a few minutes.

  Hearing something stir, sensing that somebody was there, she sat bolt upright with a scream.

  A voice cried, “Marina Andreyeva!”

  “Who’s there? Who are you?”

  “Don’t be frightened! It’s me, Kapler. … ”

  “Aleksei Yakovlevich! What are you doing here?”

  “I beg your pardon, Marina.”

  They could both breathe again. She laughed nervously.

  “Good grief, what a fright you gave me!”

  “I wasn’t expecting to find anybody in here. Please don’t be mad at me. … ”

  “No, no, I beg of you. Please don’t apologize, Aleksei Yakovl
evich. … ”

  “I must have brushed against you in the dark. I very nearly fell on you.”

  “Is it dark outside?”

  “Pitch black, as to be expected after sunset.”

  “Oh! I feel as though I couldn’t have slept for more than a minute.”

  “It won’t be long before the pests of the skies arrive. I don’t suppose there’s much chance of them showing up late. The Krauts are always very punctual, as you know.”

  Kapler snorted, amused.

  “We’re whispering like a couple of kids hiding in the dark, even though there’s no chance of anybody hearing us or seeing us. The electricity is out in the whole building, but luckily we don’t have to stay in the dark all the time.”

  The beam of a flashlight fell on the wall opposite the window. Marina could make out Kapler’s smiling face in the shadowy darkness.

  “I wish I were a bit more romantic, Marina Andreyeva. I’d like to swear that I recognized you by your perfume or your sleepy sighs, but I can’t say I did. I heard breathing. It scared the life out of me, so I switched on my flashlight without thinking. The monster turned out to be you.”

  It was Marina’s turn to smile. She found Kapler’s light-heartedness comforting and his presence reassuring. She had known him by reputation for years. The first time they had worked together had been on Kozintsev’s film. Kapler had made changes to the script. Though documentaries were more his line of work than fictional productions, he shot films himself. Other directors would often ask him to look over their work. Grigori Kozintsev said that Kapler could put his finger on the strengths and weaknesses of a work better than anyone.

  Kapler had a reputation for being an indefatigable womanizer. He had made so many conquests in the studios that people had lost count. Although he didn’t look like the typical subject of an oil painting—he was short and stocky, his face plain and his eyelids dark—as soon as he started talking and telling stories, his charm transformed him.

  Until then, perhaps because of his reputation, Marina had kept him at bay. Kapler had respected her coolness. From time to time, though, a sardonic tenderness would creep into his eyes that seemed to imply that he understood why she was fending him off.

  And now that he had suddenly appeared out of the night beside her, she felt relieved. Actually, she felt more grateful than relieved.

  Truth be told, she was glad not to be alone anymore, glad that it was Kapler and nobody else.

  He turned off his flashlight.

  “I beg your pardon for plunging you into darkness again, Marina Andreyeva. It’s not a precaution against those pests of the skies. It’s just that I have to make the battery last as long as possible. They took the machine I could have used to recharge it to Alma-Ata along with everything else.”

  Marina heard him sit down on the floor beside the couch. She leaned back against the wall and pulled one end of the kilim rug over her bare calves.

  “I didn’t know they’d moved the studios,” she said. “I only just found out.”

  “It was an express order from our revered big brother, Comrade Stalin. For once, I agree with him about something. Soviet cinema is much too precious an intelligence arm to risk letting Hitler get his hands on it. Surely you realized that. The hangars were cleared in three days. Most of our comrades in the profession piled aboard trains with the gear, headed for the steppes of Kazakhstan. It was a bit like watching cattle stampede before a storm.”

  “But you stayed behind, Aleksei Yakovlevich. … ”

  “Call me Lioussia, Marina Andreyeva. You must know that everyone calls me Lioussia. I prefer it. It makes me feel like I’m just the breath of a bird, Liousssssia, especially in the dark. In the daylight, it’s too easy for the reality to shatter that illusion.”

  They laughed.

  “No, I didn’t go with them,” Kapler went on. “I have my doubts about these mass migrations to fresh pastures. I’m a born sceptic, I suppose. No doubt vanity played a part in my decision too. I told myself that I could be more useful here than out there in the back of beyond. It’s very presumptuous of me, I’m sure.”

  Aleksei Yakovlevich shifted about in the dark, stretching his legs, asking—not without some tact—“And what about you, Marina Andreyeva? Would you think I was prying if I asked you what you’re doing here?”

  “I was hoping to find some decent clothes among the costumes.”

  “Oh … ”

  “And perhaps a roof to sleep under.”

  She told him how her lodgings had been bombed, then how, like tens of thousands of other women, she had been digging antitank trenches for more than a month. Kapler didn’t wait for her to finish before switching his flashlight back on. The ray of light sought out Marina’s hands. She pressed them against her stomach.

  Kapler protested.

  “Please, I beg of you. Show me your palms.”

  Gently, he caught hold of her wrists. She opened her swollen fingers. Her wounds looked even more ghastly in the naked light than in daylight. The scabs were cracking open, revealing the raw flesh. Threads of the rags that she had bound the wounds with in an attempt to protect them had become encrusted. A vaguely bloodlike yellowish fluid was seeping out of the cracked edges of her sores. The light touch of Kapler’s fingers was enough to draw a cry from her.

  “You’ll have to treat them, Marina Andreyeva. You can’t leave your hands in that state.”

  Marina snatched her palms away from the light.

  “A few days without holding a pickaxe or a spade and they’ll be fine.”

  “No, they most certainly won’t. You’re not the first person I’ve seen with sores like that. If you don’t treat them, they’ll get infected and you won’t be able to use your hands. At the moment, you can’t rely too heavily on time to heal anything.”

  Kapler’s voice had turned gruff and bitter. He switched off his torch. Marina heard him get up in the dark.

  “There used to be a first-aid kit around here somewhere, in an office or broom closet at the end of the corridor. With any luck, they won’t have emptied it and … ”

  “Lioussia! Lioussia! Listen!”

  They heard a familiar rumble. It was still a long way off, but their ears were well trained. Kapler sniggered.

  “Right on time, just like lovers on their first date.”

  The wail of the sirens burst out.

  “This place doesn’t have a shelter,” continued Kapler, raising his voice. “Unless you count the cellar under the kitchens. Do you want me to show you the way?”

  “No, definitely not. I hate being trapped underground listening for bombs. I feel like I’m attracting them rather than protecting myself from them. I’d rather stay put.”

  He didn’t reply. The sirens cut out. With every second that passed, the rumble of the planes grew louder.

  Marina guessed that Kapler was sitting back down on the floor. She couldn’t tell if he was frightened.

  “I don’t mind staying here by myself if you want to go down, Aleksei Yakovlevich.”

  “It’s out of the question! I’d much prefer to be under your protection than go and hole myself up under the kitchens, but I’d be grateful if you’d stop calling me Aleksei Yakovlevich. If we have to be buried under this building, I’d rather go to my death a handsome bird than a little guy.”

  Neither of them laughed. Despite themselves, they were on tenterhooks in anticipation of that all too familiar moment when the din of the antiaircraft defense would make the walls and windows vibrate.

  Marina leaned toward him.

  “You don’t have to stay on the floor. There’s plenty of room on the couch. You might as well make yourself as comfortable as possible.”

  The first convulsive blasts from an antiaircraft battery still made them jump. The long volleys of cannon fire went on and on. It seemed very close. Then came the explosions, possibly incendiary devices, further afield, out to the north of the city. The Ramenki District didn’t seem to have been targeted so far, bu
t the walls of the building were so thin that they quivered like paper.

  Even though it was dark, Marina closed her eyes. Her heart was beating faster and her hands were starting to sting. Anybody might have thought that the wounds had opened of their own accord. It was strange that fear should do that, as if terror were trying to squeeze the blood out of her body. The room suddenly seemed very hot, suffocating. She had to keep her mouth open to breathe.

  She was vaguely aware of Kapler moving about in the alcove and the sound of running water, but the rounds fired by the antiaircraft defense, the hum of the Heinkels, and the dull thuds of the explosions commanded her full attention. Of course she knew it was a mistake to try and identify every sound, to listen for the pounding of the bombs and the wail of engines signaling that planes had been hit. She knew she shouldn’t think about the impending doom.

  But it was impossible not to.

  It was as if she was seeing it all happening before her very eyes, the giant feet with their soles of steel and fire trampling on everything, ripping open the city walls, ripping open the earth.

  “Marina Andreyeva … ”

  She jumped. Kapler gently touched her shoulder. He spoke into her ear.

  “Wrap your hands in this damp cloth, Marina Andreyeva. It’ll soothe the pain a bit until we can find a better solution.”

  The damp towel brushed against her bare arm. Marina held it gingerly between her palms. He was right. The cold cloth brought her some relief.

  How had Kapler known how sore her hands were?

  Was that how he seduced women? By guessing what it was they were hiding?

  She fought back the sobs that had suddenly risen to her throat, the convulsions of raw animal emotion in her stomach. There was no let-up in the madness outside. Death was crushing everything left standing. Life was choking in the thick dust of war. Men were no longer anything more than a destructive force. But, in that seething abyss of hatred, there was still someone, albeit an almost perfect stranger, who sensed her pain and had offered her a damp towel to ease it.