by Marek Halter
As always, destiny had its own part to play.
One snowy evening at the end of November, Kamianov summoned Marina to his office. The director had dark rings under his bleary eyes behind the thick lenses of his glasses. He asked Marina if she had heard from Kapler. She replied that she hadn’t, saying that she’d written him several letters but didn’t know if they’d reached him.
Kamianov nodded sympathetically.
“I’ve read his reports in the Krasnaya Zvezda … You must have too, have you?”
Of course she’d read them over and over.
Kamianov attempted a smile. Lighting a cigarette, he muttered under his breath, “But I don’t always recognize his style. It’s not like him to be throwing in those little phrases you find here and there, such as, ‘The faith and love of our glorious soldiers have worked yet another miracle.’ You can find identical flourishes in reports by Grossman and Ehrenburg. Do you suppose that they’ve only got one proofreader left at the Krasnaya Zvezda?”
He laughed quietly, running his left hand over his bald head. His eyes glazed over. His son was with millions of others in the hell of Stalingrad. He was there to kill or be killed.
“At least,” murmured Kamianov, “the articles are being published. That’s one piece of good news that has reached us.”
Marina nodded in agreement. She had told herself the same thing thousands of times and both understood and shared Kamianov’s grief, but had he brought her there just to fret over Lioussia?
The director guessed what she was thinking. He sat up straight and his face brightened.
“I’ve got some more good news for you, Comrade Gousseieva.”
He stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray full of butts and grabbed a file, a hefty cardboard plum folder, crammed full of more or less orderly pages.
“This theater is finally going to have the chance to spring back to life, although not at the end of the month as we’d hoped. We’re going to have to postpone the date of the premiere for another few days, but we should be back in business before Christmas. Before Christmas suits us very well. Christmas is a prime time for theatre. Plus, we’ll be making our debut with … No, I’ll let you see for yourself!”
He slid the file across his desk. She flipped back the cover and couldn’t help but shriek when she saw the three names on the first page:
SHAKESPEARE
HAMLET
translation by
BORIS LEONIDOVICH PASTERNAK
Kamianov lit another cigarette and warned her with his hands not to get too excited.
“It’s not absolutely definite yet, Marina Andreyeva, but I’m more than hopeful. You couldn’t get a more official translation. Pasternak was commissioned by the Soviet Office for Culture with the consent of our comrades in the politburo and … ”
He rolled his eyes comically.
“You couldn’t get more official than the guys who orchestrated it either. It would be pretty surprising if they found fault with anything. Pasternak finished it ten days ago! Can you imagine? We’ll have to get to work right away to be ready in time. Nobody masters Shakespeare overnight, do they? The part of Ophelia is for you. There’s no question about that! I knew from the start that it had to be you. Marina Andreyeva is Ophelia! ‘And I, of ladies most deject and wretched / That suck’d the honey of his music vows, / Now see that noble and sovereign reason / Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh / That unmatch’d form and feature of blown youth / Blasted with ecstasy … ’ Yes, without a doubt, Marina Andreyeva, that part is for you!”
Kamianov had risen to his feet to recite from Pasternak’s Shakespeare. There was a raw and bitter edge to his sardonic tone. Did he know? Had Lioussia told him Marina’s secret? He couldn’t possibly have chosen that quotation by chance. It had such a perfect double meaning.
He sat back down, puffing nervously on his cigarette.
“I know, Marina Andreyeva, Hamlet is a man’s play. Ophelia isn’t onstage much, but she’s the only living flower in that catacomb of red-blooded fury. … It’s perfect for your comeback. What’s more, and wait until you hear this, I’ve got some more fantastic news. I had Boris Leonidovich Pasternak on the phone this morning, practically purring with pleasure. He’s agreed to come to a couple of rehearsals. What more could we want?”
The actors immediately set to work with great enthusiasm, rehearsing late into the night. Performing the great Pasternak’s translation of Shakespeare was a dream come true. They had to prove themselves worthy of the privilege. The whole troupe was thrilled at the prospect of putting on the play for the people of Moscow and brightening up the USSR’s second wartime Christmas.
After two intensive weeks at the theater, Marina found it difficult to concentrate on what she was doing at the workshop. Her fatigue made her sluggish, and her fingers worked less quickly. Once, she fell asleep and her head rolled onto the grenade that she had just assembled. Her line manager woke her up with a prod.
“Confine your sleeping to the nighttime, Gousseieva! You’ll throw us all out of sync, comrade. If you keep nodding off, you’ll do something foolish. It’s not as if we’re handling doves. … ”
Marina was summoned to the politruk, accompanied by her line manager. Might the woman be a fan of the theatre, or Pasternak, or any of the actresses? When Marina explained why she hadn’t been getting enough sleep, the politruk was ecstatic.
“You’re putting on a play at Christmas?”
“I hope so. The director is still waiting for final confirmation from the Office for Culture, but it should come through. It’s only a matter of days until Christmas, now. We have to be ready.”
“Do you know that I’ve never been inside the Art Theatre, Comrade Gousseieva?”
“I could get you two tickets for a performance, Comrade Commissar. Not for Christmas Day itself, of course, but for just afterward.”
“Would you do that for me?”
“I’m sure that my Comrade Director would be able to arrange it. It’s the least we can do for you. You’ve been very accommodating.”
The politruk’s delight was heartwarming. She lowered her voice.
“Do you think that Comrade Stalin will be in the audience on Christmas Day? Everyone knows that he loves the theatre. He loves everything to do with art, doesn’t he? The cinema, literature … It’s because of his love for the arts that the Krauts will never take Stalingrad, Comrade Gousseieva! Stalin knows that a war isn’t fought only with grenades and tanks.”
With the same enthusiasm, the politruk signed her leave form. Marina was given special dispensation to stay off work until the day after the premiere.
Her hand was trembling when she took the piece of paper. Why hadn’t it occurred to her that Stalin might be in the audience watching the evening performance on Christmas Day? The politruk was right. He loved the theatre and “everything to do with art.”
Making the most of her newfound freedom, she arrived at the theater just before midday the following day. As she made her way down Kamergersky Lane, she noticed them getting out of a ZIS 101 car with mud splashed all the way up the sides, four heavies in leather coats. That day even their chapka hats were identical. One of them, in thick-rimmed spectacles, was carrying a briefcase. Two other mustached men followed him into the building, while a fourth, a youngster with a hard peasant’s face, stood waiting by the ZIS.
Though her blood was rushing in her temples, Marina forced herself to continue walking as if nothing had happened. The youngster lit a cigarette, turning to face the wall to shield his lighter. While his back was turned, Marina walked past him without him noticing her.
Once out of sight, she hesitated. Was she right to be behaving like a fugitive? Were the men from the NKVD bothered about her? Might they simply have come to give Kamianov instructions on the imminent opening?
Or to tell him that Stalin would be in the audience?
If Joseph Vissarionovich was going to be at the premiere, she wouldn’t be able to appear onstage.
It was entirely possible that the leather coat brigade had come for her. She could just imagine them ordering Kamianov to give the part of Ophelia to someone else, or even send her packing.
The old fear that had haunted her for years was back with a vengeance, her obsession, her certainty that she was just a mouse at the mercy of his teasing claws.
As much out of defiance as impatience to know what was going on, she decided to go into the theater. Skirting around the building, she slipped in by the discreet stage door. It was still early. The dressing rooms, corridors, and stage were deserted. There was nobody around, except for a few cleaners chatting in the archways.
Marina kept her coat and wool hat on. She crept up the back stairs to the first floor. Once on the landing opposite the main stairs, she opened the door a crack and stopped dead.
There were voices coming from Kamianov’s office. She recognized the director’s. He was silenced by a snigger. Marina could have sworn it was the man in the glasses. She couldn’t make out what he was saying. His words echoed around the corridor, losing all meaning, but their tone was unambiguously hard and scornful.
She let the door close softly behind her.
What was going on? Why were they giving Kamianov a hard time?
The hum of voices continued. She could no longer hear the director. A few minutes went by. Suddenly the voices became clearer. The leather coat brigade was out in the corridor. She heard their mocking farewell.
“We’ll be seeing you, Comrade Kamianov.”
They left, their footfalls echoing down the stone steps of the main stairs, and then all was silence again.
Marina waited a few seconds. She opened the door partway on the lookout for any secretaries. The corridor remained empty and silent. The women must be hiding away in their own offices.
She tiptoed over the floorboards to Kamianov’s office. Kamianov was slumped in his armchair, his head in his hands. He looked like he was weeping. Marina lowered her eyes and started to step back. The floorboard creaked under her boots. Sitting bolt upright, Kamianov spotted her.
“Marina Andreyeva!”
Panic written all over his face, he sprang out of his armchair and rushed toward her.
“Are you out of your mind? What are you doing here?”
He pulled her into the room with such force that she almost fell over. Slamming the door, he muttered again, “Are you completely out of your mind?”
“Comrade Director … ”
He clapped his hand over her mouth, not giving her the chance to continue. His lips mouthed the words Be quiet! Be quiet!
Marina blinked to show that she understood. Kamianov withdrew his hand. He glanced helplessly around the room, and then turned back to Marina as if he had only just noticed her. On an unexpected impulse, he caught her by the shoulders and pulled her toward him. A pained groan shook his whole body. He let go of her, then moved away and pulled a cigarette out of the half-torn packet on his desk. His nicotine-stained fingers only stopped shaking after the third puff.
When his eyes next focused on Marina, he looked lost.
Once again he gestured to her to be quiet, opened the office door, and peered out into the corridor.
“Come with me,” he whispered.
Marina followed him. He darted out and took the staircase that she had just come up. Two minutes later, he was pushing her into a broom closet. The room was long and narrow, and the pungent odor of disinfectant made it difficult to breathe. Hundreds of wigs were lying in wait on the shelves like a blind and mute mob. There was one for every hairstyle and fashion since the Romanov period.
Kamianov collapsed into a chair.
“It’s over! It’s over. They’re going to shut down the theater before we can give a single performance!”
“Shut down the theater?”
“We shouldn’t have rehearsed Hamlet.”
“But … ”
“Pasternak is the problem. ‘Pasternak has done a very bad job of the translation, Comrade Kamianov. It’s a biased, ideologically confused work.’”
Kamianov tried to impersonate the NKVD agent, but she could hear the terror in his voice.
“It’s my fault. I should’ve been more careful. Pasternak has fallen out of favor with them. I had been warned, but I didn’t think that things were that bad. … I was overhasty.”
“But why close the theater? We can put on another play. … ”
“It’s a punishment, Comrade Gousseieva, a punishment. … We shouldn’t have had the rehearsals! I so wanted to … Hamlet and Pasternak were such a fantastic line-up for Christmas!”
Kamianov laughed bitterly. He took off his glasses and rubbed his stinging eyes.
“God, it stinks in here!”
He put his glasses back on and fumbled in his pockets for a cigarette, but he had left the packet on his desk. Lifting his head, he appealed to Marina.
“I don’t smoke, Comrade Director. … ”
Kamianov gave her a strange look, his face crumpled. He clutched her wrist.
“Marina Andreyeva … ”
His voice had dropped to a whisper.
“Kapler was arrested last night.”
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
“He’s been in Moscow this past week, the fool. … Didn’t you know? I didn’t either. He didn’t come here to see us. What an idiot! A bloody idiot, honestly! You’ll never guess. Never!”
“Never guess what?”
“Who he … Oh, my God! It was suicide! Right under everyone’s nose! For a week, most probably longer! They’ve even been seen at the opera! The Bolshoi Theatre, and you won’t catch them shutting that down! And Kapler hates the opera, I know he does. … ”
“Who, Comrade Kamianov?”
“Svetlana Alliluyeva!”
Marina froze. She suddenly found the stench in the room suffocating.
Kamianov ran his hands over his face and mumbled, as if to himself, “Svetlana Alliluyeva, Stalin’s beloved daughter! Nadezhda Alliluyeva’s daughter! Oh, what an idiot! As if he needed to have her as well! A sixteen-year-old girl!”
“Where is he now?”
“Kapler? Where do you think? Where they all end up, locked up in Lubyanka, until they pack him off to hell.”
They looked at each other without seeing.
“And, Marina Andreyeva, you … ”
Marina leaned against the wall. The smell of disinfectant was making her eyes sting.
“It’s not just that your name is on the list of actors, Marina Andreyeva. They know about you and Kapler.”
Poor Kamianov couldn’t even begin to imagine what they knew! So her days of waiting were numbered. The monster was snapping its jaws shut.
“You mustn’t stay in Moscow, Marina Andreyeva. Take the initiative. Don’t hang around. Don’t you have family somewhere?”
She shook her head. That was no answer. She couldn’t speak. Her heart lurched with fear.
Kamianov pulled a piece of paper out of his jacket and scribbled a few lines on it.
“That’s Mikhoels’s address. Do you know Mikhoels? He’s in Moscow, but not for much longer. Go and see him and tell him I sent you, Marina Andreyeva. He’ll be able to help you. He’s always so good to actors. … ”
Marina protested weakly. Mikhoels of all people! As if the hero of the Yiddish theatre could save her. Poor Kamianov!
He stuffed the slip of paper forcibly into her coat pocket.
“Now I’m going to have to go back to my office. They’re going to start wondering where I am. Go quickly, now. … Don’t stay in the theater. Don’t come back.”
His voice broke and he clenched his teeth. As he squeezed her wrist, his voice was barely audible.
“Some days are like this, black days. This morning I got a letter from Stalingrad. Not from my son, but from a friend of his, Nicolai. … My son’s gone to his rest. The only rest we’re still entitled to in this crazy world of ours.”
Marina stole away from
the theater like a thief in the night. She jumped at every crunch of footsteps in the snow and crossed the road for no reason. Although it was so cold that the eyebrows of the passersby were hoary with frost, she felt uncomfortably hot in her coat.
She had to resist an urge to go to Lioussia’s apartment on Lesnaya Street. It was probably under surveillance, as was her apartment. Where could she go to escape from Lubyanka’s spies?
God, why had Kapler done it? Why had he allowed himself to be seen with Stalin’s daughter? Kamianov was right. It was suicide.
Or revenge.
Kapler was the only one who knew what had happened between her and Stalin. Why would he want to seduce a gawky sixteen-year-old girl like Svetlana? She was only just short of ugly. It was asking for trouble, for sure.
Kapler and Svetlana Alliluyeva!
No, love couldn’t possibly have come into it. It was impossible. Lioussia had finally found a way to take revenge on Stalin for the night he’d spent with Marina in the movie theater at the Kremlin, and maybe the anti-Semitic petitions too. It was a move that would cost him ten years in a camp, if not his life.
Oh, he was crazy, crazy!
How could he?
Marina realized that her tears were freezing on her cheeks. She was crying. Passersby were beginning to give her strange looks. She had to calm down, think, work out a solution.
Was it possible that she was imagining things? Kapler had been so good to her, so kind. What could have induced him to take revenge in that way?
It didn’t make sense. Aleksei Yakovlevich was a Don Juan. He needed conquests. The crazier and stranger the enterprise, the better he liked it. Was that not why he had seduced her, an anti-Semite, Stalin’s pariah? Had it not been a far-fetched gamble?
She wandered around for two or three hours, turning these questions and fears over and over in her mind. Finally, as if of their own accord, her feet took her to the workshop. Would they perhaps let her go back to work on the assembly line? Was assembling grenades for the soldiers, who were dying by the hundreds and thousands in Stalingrad, like Kamianov’s son, not punishment enough?