Stalin's Barber

by Paul M. Levitt

  Her entries indicated that whatever crops and livestock the farmers had raised had gone toward feeding the farmers. Nothing remained. Suspicious but lacking proof, the soldiers boarded the train, pulled out of Brovensk, and moved to the next town. Party secretary von Fresser counseled his constituents to wait a week before recovering their stores, lest the soldiers double back and catch them red-handed. The week that they waited was the only time that the village felt the pinch of want. When asked what could be done for the arrested farmers, Secretary von Fresser swore that he would buy them back from the Soviets, a promise that he kept with his own kopeks.

  The informer, never having ridden on a train and fearing for his life, had asked the soldiers to take him along on their forays. But the marauders left him behind to be dealt with by a mob intent on revenge. At the urging of a former priest, the crowd let him go in peace, albeit with only the clothes on his back and galoshes made of old rubber tires.

  With Natasha settled, at least for the nonce, Razan concentrated on increasing his business. Pavel built him a room, attached to the forge, with a heating conduit. The barber had cards printed that Anna and her friends liberally distributed when they traveled outside the town. A few advertisements in the provincial papers brought curious men wishing to experience this thing called a Turkish haircut. Word spread, particularly about the barber’s skill at dipping cotton sticks in alcohol, swabbing the ears, lighting the alcohol, and burning the ear hairs without the client suffering injury. Enterprising Anna served Turkish coffee or strong tea, and hired a young girl, an émigré from Anatolia, to make Turkish pastries to serve with the drinks, earning a few extra kopeks. Soon the cash register rang with rising profits, to the delight of Razan, Anna, Pavel, Natasha, and, strangely, Dimitri, who wrote to his mother that good tidings would shortly arrive for her and her husband.

  Only Gregori remained unreconciled to his stepfather, whom he had tried, without success, to convert. On a recent trip to Brovensk, Gregori had insisted on showing his humility by washing Razan’s feet, and had even soaped them with a loofah sponge. In return, Gregori asked his stepfather to pray with him in the cellar pantry, which Gregori had converted into a small chapel. A framed picture of Stalin hung above a low altar that supported an icon of the crucified Jesus. A votary candle flickered in the darkness, as Gregori and Razan knelt on a Bukharan rug to give thanks for the family’s good fortune.

  In the dancing flame, with the gold and silver paint of the icon shimmering like magical motes, Gregori tearfully begged Razan to see the light and truth of Christianity. Razan thanked him but declined. The two men then rose from their genuflections on the finely crafted red rug and repaired to the kitchen for chai. Razan felt uneasy. After the revolution, religion had fallen into disfavor, and yet to everyone’s surprise, Gregori had not only joined the Renovationist Church, but also thrived as one of the obnovlentsy: those who lent themselves to a reduced liturgy and the curtailment of priests.

  Sipping his black tea, Gregori said, “The faithful will live in a land of milk and honey.” He then spooned two helpings of sugar into his cup.

  “From your mouth to God’s ear,” said Razan, not wishing to be captious. “But tell me, in your religion, who comes first, God or the state? Both promise paradise.” Pause. “Please pass the honey.”

  Caught off guard by the question, Gregori wished to appear neither anti-Orthodox nor counterrevolutionary. He mulled over the question, slowly stirring his tea. “Cannot a man believe in paradise on earth as well as in heaven?”

  “So you equate Stalin and God?” asked Razan with raised eyebrows.

  Crossing himself, Gregori replied, “Christ is our heavenly Savior, and the Vozhd our earthly one. Both love the people, and the people love them.”

  But Razan had heard the disquieting rumors that the priesthood was cooperating with the government. “The Soviets, like the Tsar, want priests to report the secrets of the confessional. Are you not troubled?”

  “Can the state peer into a man’s soul?” he asked evasively.

  The barber used Gregori’s defensive reply to probe into the Renovationist Church. “I see. Like the Marranos, you practice your faith in secret.”

  Gregori knew the allusion: Spanish Jews who had outwardly professed Christianity and secretly clung to Judaism as a means to stay alive during the Inquisition. “How can we know,” shrugged Gregori, “what people will store up in their ghostly hearts?”

  Razan concluded that Gregori was a catacomb Christian, one of those who practiced in secret a creed they could not publicly profess. Taking a dish of sugared yeast cakes, Gregori nibbled them cautiously, as if expecting to bite into a stone. Razan only then realized that Gregori had a dental plate with false teeth. His poor diet in the seminary had no doubt introduced gum disease. Unlike Stalin, who reputedly wore a dental plate because of the rancid effects of tobacco and alcohol, Gregori eschewed both. He stared at Razan and slowly rocked in his chair, as if mimicking a davening Jew. “You’re a clever man, Razan, so tell me: Do you love God and Stalin?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Mensheviks, socialist revolutionaries, monarchists, Trotskyites, Zinovievites, Kadets, anarchists, foreigners, saboteurs, spies.”

  Oddly, the group missing from Gregori’s list was priests, and their children, few of whom, branded pariahs, could ever find work.

  “Those who hate the proletariat,” continued Gregori, pushing his teacup aside, “hate Comrade Stalin, just as the money changers hated Christ.” He stood and started to pace, clearly agitated. “For hundreds of years church councils argued. Instead of bringing harmony, the church introduced schisms and hatred. Now we have the Renovationist Church, endorsed by the Vozhd, so all may embrace it.”

  Razan, imbued with a barber’s truth that the proof was in the cut of the hair, retorted, “And for those who wish to have their mustache shaped differently . . . what of them?”

  Gregori explained that religious sects should yield to the state for the greater good of the nation; and the state had approved of the Renovationists. “Since we have no infallible way of knowing which church is right, what’s the harm, Citizen Shtube, in your believing in mine? If your belief proves right, you will spend eternity in paradise. If it proves wrong . . .” Gregori fell silent.

  Razan wondered whether it could cost him his life or a place in heaven if he made the wrong choice. Gregori had joined a church that was on the right side of Stalin. But of God?

  “In such hard times,” asked Razan, “why seek ordination?”

  “When I kneel before the altar . . . the candles illuminating the gold of the icons . . . I feel exalted, ecstatic.” Sliding a hand across the table, Gregori murmured, “Perhaps if you followed a different faith . . . to believe is to know.”

  “I was always taught that to know is to believe.”

  Gregori withdrew his hand. “You are playing with words.”

  “My mother, a teacher, told me to beware of all beliefs not amenable to proof.”

  “The presence of the world is proof of God’s greatest creation. To doubt is to put your mortal soul in peril.”

  “Whenever I burn the hairs in a Cossack’s ears, I run that risk.”

  “Have you never felt yourself spiritually transported?”

  “Yes, from your mother’s love.”

  “Surely you believe in powers higher than yourself and causes worthy of martyrdom.”

  “Communism?”

  “The Holy Spirit.”

  “Razan!” Anna called from another room. “The mayor wishes a shave.”

  Gregori, without clearing his dishes, started for the door, stopped, and remarked cryptically, “The higher cause is what we feel.”

  Purging the Party

  Fortunately, Regional Secretary Basil von Fresser received the official letter ordering him to screen the ranks of the Communist Party membership before the envoy from Moscow arrived. No doubt the chistka (purge) had come to Brovensk because the town had been elevated to the s
tatus of a territorial seat. The letter ordered him to think like a tovarishch (comrade) in ridding the local party of undesirables. Secretary von Fresser, whose own preening behavior could have landed him in trouble, reminded the party faithful how he had protected them against the “death trains” and had gladly issued them membership cards, albeit for a price, a fact he preferred to ignore. As he spread the word of the official visit, he made a point of extolling the value of membership in the party and the privileges that belonging bestowed, like keeping one safe from purges.

  “It allows you all manner of liberties,” he harangued his listeners, “and provides special food rations and clothing. Even now, as collective farms promise a bright new future, we still need the protection of a party card. It provides immunity from arrest by the civil authorities, and the guarantee of a good job, as well as the respect of the community.” He held up his card. “This marks me as a trusted tovarishch, wherever I go. Therefore, we must be ever vigilant to keep the party card from those who have been disbarred from holding it: terrorists, White Army officers, Tsarist officials, Old Believers, Trotskyites, and Mensheviks. And we must, as Comrade Zhdanov in Moscow orders, strip the card from those unworthy of it.” He paused. “We will be examining party members as soon as the GPU men arrive.”

  But only one person stepped from the train, Irina Vostoyeva. The two policemen accompanying her had left the train when diagnosed with whooping cough. A stalwart party member, proud of the brave new Communist world that treated men and women equally, she had come from a long line of priests; in fact, her father had held a prominent place in the church before he stood up and renounced the cloth. His public renunciation had won favor for his daughter because it reinforced the Soviet position that religion was a superstitious habit that had been discredited by modern science. Her father had claimed that religion deceived the gullible and that he no longer wished to serve enemies of the people. At that point, he had thrown off his vestment, passed down the aisle, and left the church, accompanied by the wails and lamentations of the fanatical old women in the congregation.

  Tall and bony, with closely cropped red curly hair and black-rimmed eyes that peered out of caves, Irina had honed her ripsaw cross-examining skills in Tashkent, prosecuting Islamic separatists. In Uzbekistan, her great talent was to make defendants think that she was a kindred spirit. Wearing a head scarf in court to give the impression of female modesty, she removed it when pulling off her mask and closing in for the kill. Her insomniac habits included the dangerous pastime of translating into German, under the assumed name of Katerina Tershina, the banned and self-exiled Russian writer Ivan Bunin, a critic of the Soviet system. To smuggle her translations into Germany—the Soviet postal system routinely opened the mails—she used couriers who moved translations of forbidden books between Odessa and Istanbul. Although a devoted Communist, her love of Bunin’s work transcended her political convictions, even though she was risking her freedom and perhaps even her life.

  Irina Vostoyeva requested a private meeting with Secretary Basil von Fresser. She came to his office dressed austerely in black with a high collar, white and starched, that accurately reflected her pinched moral views, except of course for her translations. Basil tried to make light of her visit, though he knew from her demeanor that she had come bearing complaints. “You’ve probably discovered,” he said laughingly, “that our party membership has been swelled by dead souls.”

  “That and worse.” She seemed to rise on her toes. “I have unearthed treachery.” Basil looked at her uncomprehendingly. “Hundreds hold party membership cards that have been bought or stolen or forged. Children use the cards of deceased relatives. In the provinces, I learned that people routinely carry the card of a father, uncle, or brother. You know the conditions of membership: sobriety, familiarity with socialism, activism, probity. Among the peasants I have seen anything but.” She clicked her heels. “We will have to institute a chistka and rid the party of all those who do not meet our high standards. Call your typist!”

  Boris summoned Natasha, whose loveliness even Irina paused to appreciate. Looking at the girl and the party secretary, Irina immediately began to spin webs. Surely, here was a conspiracy unlike any other. In return for favors rendered to the party secretary, what did the girl receive? No doubt, all of her relatives owned party cards and received untold benefits.

  “You do take shorthand?” asked Irina curtly.

  “N-n-no,” she stuttered, “but I can type.”

  Before a dumbstruck Irina could respond, Natasha had wheeled the portable table with its typewriter next to the prosecutor’s chair.

  “I can type over a hundred words a minute, so please start.”

  “Incroyable!” said Irina.

  “How do you spell that? It’s not a word that the secretary uses.”

  “Never mind. Just take down the following.”

  The typewriter sounded.

  “What are you writing?”

  Again it sounded.

  “Stop!”

  And again.

  Irina leaned over and pulled the sheet of paper from the typewriter and read out loud: “Never mind. Just take down the following. What are you writing? Stop.” Irina sighed. “My dear child, put a new piece of paper in the machine and type only when I say go. But you needn’t type the word ‘go.’”

  Natasha shook her head in agreement at this frightening woman.

  “To all party members.”

  Natasha’s hands didn’t move.

  “Well, why aren’t you typing?”

  “You didn’t say go.”

  Irina chafed at Basil’s chuckling. “You ass, leave us alone.” Quickly turning to Natasha, she said, “Don’t take that down.” Once Boris had left the room, Irina composed herself with a cigarette; in fact, she smoked three. Finally, extinguishing the last cigarette and taking a deep breath, she laid a hand on the typewriter and said softly, “Go.”

  Natasha smiled and readied her hands like a pianist poised to begin her concerto.

  “Dear Members of Our Beloved Communist Party, I hail you, comrades, for your tireless work on behalf of the motherland. We have before us yet another task, one that may prove far greater than any previous work we have undertaken. Saboteurs, spies, foreigners, and counterrevolutionaries have insinuated themselves into the party and must be purged. We will therefore, two days from now, be reviewing party membership cards. You who live at a distance from Brovensk need not worry. The period of review will take place for a week.

  “Please come to party headquarters with your membership card and any documentation that will prove that you are the person whose name appears on the card. Your local registrar or Communist manager can give you a letter certifying your identity, if you have no documents.

  “To guarantee the purity of the party, this purge is necessary, though not punitive.” Irina smiled at her alliteration, knowing that few party members had the literary sophistication to appreciate its effect. “Comradely yours, Irina Vostoyeva, Moscow Prosecutor for the Tenth District, USSR.” She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  Natasha handed Irina the piece of paper. After looking it over, Irina complimented the comely young woman on her flawless typing, eliciting a blush from the amanuensis.

  Natasha hazarded, “If I may be so forward . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Most of the people in this area, including the party members, are illiterate. They can’t read or even sign their names. No one will read it. Secretary von Fresser has often complained about the difficulty of reaching the masses.” She would have continued, but Irina slumped in her chair, her posture signaling defeat. Lighting another cigarette, she said, “Govnaw (shit)!”

  The woman from Moscow, determined to clean up the Brovensk Party, announced she would be staying in town until every family in the province knew her mission. To her question, “Is there a boardinghouse nearby?” the party secretary told her no but she was welcome to stay at his home. Not wishing to incur the taint of
compromise, she thanked Basil and inquired if another family would be kind enough to board her. Natasha volunteered the Lipnoskii house, to the chagrin of her mother, who regarded all authority with suspicion. Irina readily accepted, convinced that by keeping an eye on “Miss Prettiness” she would be led to all manner of official mischief.

  Over dinner the first night, Irina met the family still resident in Brovensk: Anna, Razan, and Pavel. From the oldest boy, she learned that his father, Pyotr, had died from a surfeit of drink and that Razan had moved in with the mother shortly before they had married. Her nose for wrongdoing at first made her think that perhaps Razan and Anna had plotted Pyotr’s demise; after all, Razan had almost immediately found accommodation in the house and a bed that Pyotr had ruled. So Irina, who foraged for fault, plied Anna for details of Pyotr’s drowning. Anna repeated the story that she had pitifully shared with her neighbors and the local officials. When Pyotr failed to return, she had taken her coat and looked for him along the footpath that he normally followed. But though she crossed the icy stream in which he had drowned, she never saw him. Irina condoled with her hostess, smiled at Natasha, and asked, “How late does the local tavern stay open?” She lit a cigarette.

  “It’s not really a tavern,” said Pavel, “so much as a roadside inn for travelers heading east.”

  “So they serve at all hours?” she said, exhaling smoke.

  Pavel knew in fact that one could purchase a drink at any hour of the day but did not wish to make trouble for his fellow townsmen. “By midnight the inn is usually dark.”

  “Usually?”

  “I’d say almost always.”