The Birobidzhan Affair: A Novel

by Marek Halter

  It seemed not. Before she even had time to take off her coat in the cloakroom, the politruk appeared.

  “My office, Comrade Gousseieva.”

  The woman wasn’t smiling anymore. Apparently her passion for the theatre was quite forgotten. She gave Marina a strange look, as if she had never taken enough notice of her before, and reached for an envelope on her desk. It was a blank envelope except for the official coat of arms of the government postal service.

  “An official from the Kremlin brought this for you, comrade.”

  The politruk looked at the envelope and held it between her fingers for a few seconds. It was a letter from the Kremlin. Her thumb hovered over the red and gold coat of arms, but someone must have led her to understand that Marina hadn’t been nominated for an award. She held out the envelope.

  The flap slit open under Marina’s icy fingers. Fear clutched at her stomach. She could hardly breathe. The envelope contained a sheet of paper folded in four.

  Two days. In memory. J.

  Marina read it again, uncomprehendingly. The writing was clear and elegant.

  The politruk announced, “You don’t work here anymore, Comrade Gousseieva.”

  Finally the shoe dropped. J stood for Joseph.

  She was looking at Stalin’s handwriting.

  He was giving her two days to get out of Moscow.

  Two days and no arrest—that was Joseph Stalin’s gift to her in return for the night of November 8, 1932.

  Marina reeled. She reached for the back of a chair.

  The politruk took her by the shoulders and pushed her toward the door.

  “You can’t stay here.”

  As she walked through the workshop, Marina could feel the women’s eyes boring into her. The politruk must have already broken the news. Nobody said a word. The clang of metalwork said it all.

  Finding herself back on the blindingly white icy streets, Marina didn’t bother to check if she was being followed. She needed to think. There was nothing to stop her going back to her room now.

  She had two days. Joseph Vissarionovich would keep his word; she didn’t doubt it.

  No sooner had she collapsed onto her bed than a kind of fever gripped her. She found herself shivering and her teeth chattering. Nothing seemed to warm her up. After an hour, she wrapped herself in a blanket and went off in search of some vodka. She rooted around the kitchen and other rooms until she got ahold of a half-empty little bottle, then drained it all at once, in three long burning gulps. In the end, the alcohol dulled her senses and took the edge off her fear. She fell asleep and dreamed that Lioussia was howling Ophelia’s part in the ruins of Stalingrad. He was dragging Stalin’s daughter along behind him. An ageless, faceless redhead, she was naked in the snow, trailing blood with every step she took.

  Marina woke up in the dead of night in a cold sweat, feeling nauseous. When she went to get a drink of water, she noticed a room door open a fraction. The other tenants would be asking her to clear out the next day.

  Back in her room, she read Joseph Vissarionovich’s note over and over again.

  Two days. In memory. J.

  Why? Why such leniency?

  What was the catch?

  And where could she go? Where should she go?

  Should she join the film community in Alma-Ata? No, nobody would hire her for a film now. Alma-Ata was just another Moscow now. The leather coat brigade laid down the law out there too.

  One possibility was to go and fight alongside the female troops on the front. Thousands of them were going off to die heroic deaths every day. It would be a beautiful and glorious send-off. Alternatively, she could disappear into one of the numerous arms factories and workshops in the Urals and Siberia. They would welcome her with open arms. She could die quietly for the theatre there, or maybe just die.

  Was that Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin’s gift to her, that she should disappear and be forgotten but be spared the Gulag?

  Had he loved her? Had there been one jot of love in his heart for her? Had he felt tender toward her for even a few seconds while he’d been having his way with her on the couch in the movie theater? Was that all the great Stalin was capable of, some measly affection that spared you the bullets and a bleak life of starvation in Siberia?

  Lying in the dark, Marina cackled wickedly like a drunken woman.

  Then she became delirious again and called for Kapler.

  Why did you do it, Lioussia? Why have you caused us all this trouble?

  It wasn’t until morning that she remembered that Kamianov had stuffed Mikhoels’s address into her coat pocket.

  “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. … ”

  Was it possible that the master of the Yiddish theater could help her? How could a Jew like him defy Stalin’s will?

  What an idea!

  She wondered bitterly whether that was Kapler’s revenge. Was this his way of forcing her to humiliate herself in front of Mikhoels? Knowing she had signed the anti-Semitic petitions, did he want her to grovel to the Jew Mikhoels and beg him for help?

  That would make a fine spectacle. Talk about teaching her a lesson!

  No, she was cracking up. She was going out of her mind with fear and shame.

  By the time Marina turned up on Mikhoels’s doorstep, she scarcely had twenty-four hours left. The house was buzzing with people. Mikhoels’s wife saw at a glance what a state she was in. Without asking any questions, she showed her into the living room and left her with some scampering children, while she brought her a piping hot bowl of broth.

  “Drink that, my dear. Solomon Iossifovich won’t be long. He always seems to be doing a thousand things at once. He’ll see you as soon as he gets back. Now you get warm while you’re waiting, you look like you could use some warming up.”

  She didn’t ask any questions or try to find out why Marina had come. When Marina appeared reluctant to take the bowl of broth, she smoothed her hair coaxingly. Marina felt warm inside at her touch. Tears blurred her vision. How long had it been since she had been given that kind of attention by a mother figure?

  It was an hour before Mikhoels came back. He led Marina into a tiny room cluttered with books and papers and studied her with twinkling eyes before exclaiming, “So you made up your mind in the end, Comrade Gousseieva!”

  Marina looked back at him uncomprehendingly. Mikhoels chuckled mockingly. He had the strangest face she had ever seen. There was no denying that he was very ugly. His huge chin jutted out, and his thick lips were perpetually moving. A wreath of frizzy, disheveled hair bristled on his never-ending smooth shiny forehead. The bushy tufts of his eyebrows joined over the bridge of his nose. His nose itself could have come straight out of an anti-Semitic cartoon. Continuously darting about, his eyes seemed to change color when they caught the light. Despite all this, when he was animated, his ugly face was transformed by a fascinating intelligence and vivacity. At that moment, Mikhoels was thoroughly enjoying Marina’s confusion.

  “Are you wondering what on earth I’m talking about, comrade? Of course you are. How can this fool Mikhoels possibly guess what my heart and soul barely dare to whisper? Ah, now there’s a mystery for you! It’s because I’ve heard so much about you, Comrade Marina Andreyeva, that I feel as if I know you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. And where did I hear it all from? Why, from your good friends Kapler and Kamianov. … They adore you. That idiot Kapler! God only knows where he’ll end up.”

  “Lioussia told you about me?”

  “More than he needed to. It seems you have talent. I can’t judge; I would have to see you onstage. Kamianov agrees with him. ‘She’s not without her shortcomings, brilliant and gifted, but she doesn’t work hard enough.’ Personally, I’d like to add, ‘That’s a pity, but it can soon be put right if she’s willing to learn.’”

  He frowned. Marina flushed, at a loss. Mikhoels suddenly became serious.

&nb
sp; “There you are, now you understand. And I also know that Big Brother Stalin has taken action against you, hasn’t he?”

  Marina remained silent. Mikhoels’s face grew stern.

  “I have to leave Moscow by tomorrow evening.”

  “Hmm … It’s tight, but it can be done. Did they let you keep your domestic passport?”

  Marina took it out of her bag. It was a red booklet with a tatty cover stamped with the Bolshevik coat of arms. She wouldn’t have been able to travel outside Moscow without it. Mikhoels checked that it was valid with an expert eye.

  “Perfect. … What would you say to going to Birobidzhan to learn the secrets of the Yiddish theatre?”

  “Birobidzhan … ”

  “Have you heard of it?”

  How ironic! Of course she had heard of it, a long time ago, on that November night ten years ago when it had all begun. When, with a glass of vodka in his hand, “Daddy” Kalinin had proudly announced the creation of the oblast in the farthest corner of Siberia that was to become the Jewish autonomous region.

  “Good,” Mikhoels said approvingly. “That saves me having to explain.”

  “It’s not possible. … ” Marina murmured.

  “Of course it is. It’s up to me which actors I send out there. It’s my prerogative as king of the Yiddish theatre. Birobidzhan is an ambitious gem of a plan. It’s a dream that might well come true, at least in a little while.”

  “But I’m not Jewish.”

  Mikhoels’s face seemed to lift joyously like a bird taking flight.

  “Not in the least bit Jewish. I know that too. Kapler told me.”

  He didn’t care that she was embarrassed. The allusion to the petitions couldn’t have been clearer. Marina turned her head away, her cheeks hot with shame.

  “Well, there are people other than Jews in Birobidzhan. It’s like anywhere else in the world. They make room for the goys. … ”

  Mikhoels burst out laughing. His eyes narrowed into two tiny shining slits.

  “Of course, you’re going to have to get used to the Jews. Their culture and their way of life might not be exactly to your taste, but tastes can change, can’t they? Kapler assured me that, without knowing it, you showed every sign of having what it takes to become an acceptable Jew, not like one of our typical local meydl of course, but you’ll play the part well enough. … ”

  Marina had no answer to that. Mikhoels was thoroughly enjoying himself. Onstage, his laugh was his greatest asset. He could flummox an audience by making them laugh at things that weren’t funny.

  Now he was serious again. Softening, he took Marina’s hands in his.

  “You’ll get your head around it. Here’s your first lesson about Jews. When a goy meets with misfortune, he’s miserable and wants everybody to be miserable with him, whereas your true Jew, who’s been Jewish for generations down the female line, will know what to do. He’ll pull himself together, look his misfortune straight between the eyes, and say Nisht gedeyget, … nisht gedeyget! ‘Don’t worry, don’t worry!’ And do you know why? No … You couldn’t possibly. It’s because he’s thinking about his birthday. … ”

  Laughter had returned to Mikhoels’s face. Marina listened, lost, but nevertheless feeling a smile welling up inside her.

  “And why does that good Jew, who’s been Jewish for generations down the female line, think about his birthday? Because on our birthdays we wish each other Biz hundert un tsvantsik … meaning ‘May you live to be a hundred and twenty.’”

  Mikhoels paused. Marina gave a puzzled frown.

  “A hundred and twenty is not just any old number. It’s the age Moses was when he died. So on your birthday, people say they hope you’ll live to be as old as Moses. … Do you know why? No … you don’t. You couldn’t possibly. … ”

  Mikhoels was on his feet now. He was playing the clown, addressing Marina as he might have a child in the audience.

  “It’s because on the day of his one hundred and twentieth birthday, everyone rushed up to Moses to wish him well, but this time they wished him a gutn tog, a good day! That’s because Moses had plenty of time to come to terms with his misfortune.”

  Mikhoels exploded with laughter. He had such an infectious laugh that Marina felt it swelling in her chest and squeezing tears from her eyes. And they carried on laughing, she through her tears and he straight-faced, until he flopped back down beside her.

  “Let me tell you, my girl, in Birobidzhan the question is not whether or not you’re Jewish. You’ll become Jewish if you want to. For an actress of your caliber, it’ll be no effort at all. You’ll get the hang of it. You’ll learn Yiddish, maybe even Hebrew. It might come in handy. You’ll find out what we’re about. Nothing could be simpler, you’ll see. But I’m sending you there only on one condition: that you work at your profession and make me proud, that you become what you ought to become, a great actress, a Jewish actress capable of laughing at herself. That’s the price you’ll have to pay if you want to be part of the family. That’s Birobidzhan, our new Israel, a country where you have to be great and proud of what you are. Nothing else matters.”

  Washington, June 23, 1950

  One Hundred and Forty-Seventh Hearing before the House Un-American Activities Committee

  FOR THE FIRST TIME ever at an HUAC hearing, everyone listened without interrupting for three solid hours, perhaps even longer. Cohn, Wood, and the congressmen refrained from barking out stupid questions.

  The most Nixon and McCarthy had allowed themselves was a snide grin when Marina had admitted to signing the anti-Semitic petitions. Now and again, Cohn would start to ask a question, but each time, Wood would silence him with a look, nodding in the Russian’s direction.

  “Carry on, miss.”

  She would pick up the thread of her story as if nothing had happened. The men even smiled thinly at her Jewish joke. Could it be that they too wanted to live to be a hundred and twenty?

  She was giving a fine performance, but it was wearing her out. The circles under her eyes were deeper and darker. Unlike the previous day, when her anger had kept her fatigue at bay, she seemed fragile. At times, we really had to listen hard to hear what she was saying. At other times, a faraway look would come into her eyes. She was no longer seeing us, she was reliving her memories, her fingertips trembling.

  Occasionally, her voice would be choked with emotion, as if her words were stuck in her throat. A fine glaze of perspiration would glisten on her upper lip. Every now and then, she would smooth her hair back under the metal barrette, as if to draw strength. She would flex her fingers and press them against her temple in an effort to soothe some invisible torment.

  None of her body language seemed like theatrical tricks.

  But then again, perhaps it was.

  At other times, you could tell from her voice or a sardonic smile lurking behind her blank expression that she was putting her own spin on her story. Then there was that knack she had for giving you a flash of those blue eyes of hers, or the way she held out her hands, palms upward. Instinctively, we had all looked for scars from the wounds that her lover Kapler had tended to so well. It wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine her onstage, but the next instant, her voice would give you the shivers, conveying only loss and a haunting sadness.

  Now, head bowed, she was silent. Her face conveyed a sense of abandonment. She stroked the empty jug in front of her absentmindedly. Today, she had not been short of water. Somebody had seen to that. Everything about her, from her graceful hand movements, her ghastly pale cheeks, and her well-defined lips to the white skin of her neck showing above the gaping neckline of her dress, exuded a vulnerable, somewhat weary sensuality that made you look away.

  Her hands poised over her stenotype machine, Shirley turned to me. I met her gaze. The emotion had brought tears to her eyes. I forced a smile. We both felt like Marina deserved a round of applause.

  Yes, Marina Andreyeva Gousseiev was a damn good actress.

  But her audience was hostile and s
omething wasn’t right. The men had behaved like model schoolboys. They’d been suspiciously well behaved, and I’d have been willing to bet that their good behavior had nothing to do with Marina’s talent or any kind of divine intervention.

  Being questioned by HUAC was usually much like being held over a cauldron. Rule number one: grill the witness. Don’t let her have any breathing space, don’t give her a chance to think. Pick holes in her sentences, don’t allow her to say anything sensible, contradict her, drive her crazy. Why had Wood stopped Cohn? Why had neither Nixon nor McCarthy so much as opened their mouths?

  McCarthy had scarcely listened to Marina. He seemed focused on the hefty file in front of him. I’d have given my right arm to know what was in it. Several times, he had taken out pages and passed them along to Nixon and Wood. His efforts had been rewarded with approving glances. And now Wood was rapping his gavel.

  “That will do for today. We’ve been listening to you for a while, Miss Gousseiev. In future, I’d ask you to be more concise. You’re not here to regurgitate memories, and we’re not interested in stories about Jews.”

  This time Nixon and McCarthy laughed openly. Wood turned to Cohn.

  “Tomorrow I want to hear what your specialist from the CIA has to say about this Birobidzhan before the witness speaks, Chief Investigator Cohn.”

  “He’ll be here, sir.”

  “And will he be able to give us details about the OSS agent’s mission?”

  “I’ve asked him to.”

  “So the hearing is adjourned. We’ll resume at eleven tomorrow morning.”

  The guards were already behind Marina. She stood up in her crumpled dress. The handcuffs snapped shut on her wrists. She winced. My eyes followed her all the way to the door.

  McCarthy was closing his file while talking to Nixon in hushed tones. The other congressmen had gathered around. Just then Wood chose to notice me.