The Birobidzhan Affair: A Novel Page 2

Cohn burst out laughing and we joined in.

  Wood brought his gavel down.

  “Are you Jewish, yes or no?”

  “I became Jewish in Birobidzhan, thanks to Stalin.”

  For Cohn’s benefit, she added in Yiddish, “Perhaps more Jewish than you, sir.”

  I must have been the only person in the room who knew a few words of Yiddish. Everyone around me was in stitches, and their laughter began to get on my nerves.

  The majority of witnesses examined by HUAC over the last ten years had been Jewish. Some Committee members, such as McCarthy and Nixon, were notorious anti-Semites. However, HUAC could not very well display its hatred of Jews openly, so they used young Cohn as a mask. He was perfect for the role: born in Brooklyn but dead set against the Jews. Why was a mystery to me.

  I began to understand why they had invited me along. They needed a Jewish journalist as well as a Jewish chief investigator, a guy like me with a G as in Gershom before his surname, even if I always signed as Allen G. Koenigsman. Someone who would soon be able to proclaim that the woman was a fake through and through, a phony American but a true communist, a spy, and, to crown it all, a phony Jew. Because, for the HUAC crowd, there was no doubt about it: communists were Jews, and Jews were communists. You couldn’t be one and not the other. There was no getting away from it. And this woman was going to be the proof they had always dreamed of.

  Anyway, that’s exactly what the Wisconsin Senator—McCarthy himself—started to holler into the microphone, “Miss … Gouss … ev, whatever-your-name-is, you don’t seem to appreciate the gravity of your situation. You have appeared before this Committee under a false name and with a false passport that you admit belonged to a murdered US federal agent who enabled you to enter our country illegally. You’re trying to pass yourself off as a Jew, but you’re not Jewish. You’re Russian but not a communist … Don’t you think it’s time you started telling the truth?”

  “The truth?”

  “That you’re working as a spy here in the United States for Stalin’s Soviet Union.”

  She gave a bold little laugh. Her hands were no longer clasped on the table. The white handkerchief had disappeared without my noticing. She shook her head.

  “I don’t think you want to hear the truth, sir.”

  Wood’s double chin wobbled.

  “That’s what we’re here for, miss. That’s what this Committee is here for, to hear the truth.”

  “That’s what people like you always say, but the truth is always too complicated for you. Like you, Stalin is fond of saying that he has only one desire, to hear the truth! ‘Marinotchka, tell me the truth!’ he said, but he only ever listens to lies.”

  McCarthy practically leaped out of his chair.

  “You know Stalin?”

  She looked back at him, amused. Her expression was the kind often worn by women when confronted with male naïvety. I could have sworn that she wasn’t frightened anymore. Although her accent was slightly more pronounced, her voice sounded stronger. What’s more, her gaze appeared more direct, intent. She was an actress through and through, there was no doubt about it, and she was playing the role of her life.

  “I only met him once, one evening, one night, nearly twenty years ago. That’s when it all started.”

  She began her story, and this time nobody would have interrupted her for the world.

  The Kremlin, Moscow

  Night of November 8–9, 1932

  OF COURSE SHE REMEMBERED. She had been young, barely twenty years old, as a matter of fact. It was during the horrendous famine years. She hadn’t forgotten a single detail. How could she have?

  She had arrived at the Kremlin like a princess, in the back of an official car, with Galia Egorova at her side. Night had already fallen when the chauffeur stopped the Gaz in front of the barrier at the Nikolsky Gate. Soldiers were standing guard by the light of the streetlamps, rifles on their shoulders, bayonets fixed, their breath swirling around them in the November chill. Other guards were coming and going at the foot of the red-brick wall.

  An officer emerged from the sentry box. He smiled when he recognized the commanding officer’s pennant on the grill of the Gaz. Galia Egorova rolled down her window halfway.

  The lieutenant’s smile widened. He saluted her. “Comrade Egorova!”

  “Poor Ilya Stepanovich! Still a night guard when it’s so nice and warm inside?”

  “Doing our duty gives us a warm glow, Comrade Egorova. And standing guard gives us time to think about the beauty that has slipped between our fingers.”

  He bent down and rested his gloved hand on the edge of the window. The light from the streetlamps barely reached the back of the car. He studied Marina’s face at length. His eyes lingered on her well-defined lips and took in the full bloom of youth on her lustrous skin. For a few seconds, the sea-blue eyes held his gaze. He noticed the blush darkening her cheeks and seemed amused.

  Without saying a word, his hand still on the window, he straightened up. His eyes wandered back to Egorova. They looked at each other in silence. She was beautiful too, but it was a different sort of beauty, mature and provocative. When she smiled at you, her smile could rest on you for a while without you sensing the mockery behind it.

  Her hand brushed the lieutenant’s wrist. She wore black lace gloves and her purple nail polish shone through the woven thread. There couldn’t have been two women in the whole of Moscow who could get away with displaying these remnants of the old aristocracy and go right into the Kremlin.

  “Didn’t you promise to read me your new poems, Ilya Stepanovich?”

  The lieutenant shook with silent laughter. He let go of the window and motioned to the guards to raise the barrier.

  “Just as soon as my commanding officer gives me the order, I’ll throw myself at your feet, Comrade Egorova.”

  His laughter was lost as the Gaz moved off. Galia Egorova waved her lace-clad hand before rolling up the window.

  “Isn’t he sweet? I think he’s genuinely frightened of Alexander.”

  “He certainly had no qualms about staring at me, but he didn’t even ask my name.”

  “Why would he ask your name, my dear Marinotchka? He knows very well where we’re going.”

  Marina shivered. The cold had crept into the car. Her cloak wasn’t thick enough, and her dress left too much flesh exposed. She had borrowed both from Egorova. However, she wasn’t trembling from cold alone.

  The car crawled forward along the Kremlin’s broad avenues. Every half mile, they came under the watchful eyes of the soldiers, their faces partly hidden under their chapka hats. The headlights swept over the high windows of the Arsenal before lighting on the enchanting golden domes of the Ivan the Great Bell Tower. The Church of the Deposition stood out against the night sky. Marina had never seen the splendor of it all so close up, the pure splendor of Great Russia, but she was far too nervous to admire the view. It had all been so unexpected.

  Two days earlier, Galia Egorova had burst into her dressing room at the Vakhtangov Theatre. Marina had been cast in the role of a young heroine of the Revolution in a play called An Optimistic Tragedy by Vsevolod Vishnevsky.

  The visit had come as a surprise, since she barely knew the great Bolshevik actress. At the time, Marina had been a mere amateur, whereas Galia Egorova had been a sensation in the films of Alexandrov, Stalin’s favorite director, and her reputation was the talk of the town. Her husband, Alexander Egorov, was the Kremlin’s commanding officer. He had served alongside Stalin during the Polish-Soviet War and was a man with big ideas. Rumor had it that his wife had as many lovers as films to her name. Or could it be that Egorova didn’t have that many lovers, just one, a lover who outranked all the rest?

  There in the shabby communal dressing room of the Revolution Theatre, Egorova had lavished her with caresses and compliments before telling her the real reason for her visit. Marina had laughed and continued to take off her makeup.

  “It’s not nice to make fun of me, Galia Ego
rova!”

  Egorova had flashed her one of her enchanting smiles that would have melted anyone’s heart.

  “I’m not making fun of you, darling. Joseph wants to see you close up.”

  “Me?”

  “Uncle Avel was in the audience here a week ago. You made quite an impression on him. … ”

  “Uncle Avel?”

  “Avel Enukidze of Georgia. He’s a big fan of dance and theatre … the pretty girls that go with it … It’s probably the only subject he knows anything about. He keeps Joseph entertained. For once he’s right about something: you are brilliant. I was watching you onstage this evening and that was my verdict. Your character is silly. The whole play is silly, if you want my opinion, but I suppose you don’t have much choice these days. You do pull it off magnificently. … ”

  Egorova clapped her hand over Marina’s mouth before she could protest.

  “I know what I’m talking about, believe me. Only a great actress can play a bad role without looking ridiculous. … You’re the future, my angel! Comrade General Secretary Stalin is passionate about the future. Who wouldn’t be when it looks like you?”

  Galia Egorova grabbed a clean cloth and finished taking off Marina’s makeup herself.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be there. The meeting will take place at Klim Voroshilov’s house. Our great hero has the best apartment in the Kremlin. The whole of the politburo will be at the party, with their spouses, of course. At first, you’ll be bored stiff, but after a while, you’ll find it’s much more fun than you’d expect.”

  Marina had at least heard of Voroshilov. Who hadn’t by now? Even Vishnevsky’s play mentioned “Voroshilov, a simple mining lad who defeated the soldiers of three nations and became the champion of the Polish-Soviet War.”

  There was also a portrait of Voroshilov pinned up alongside Stalin’s in the theater lobby. Nevertheless, it was quite a stretch of the imagination from that to dining at their table at the Kremlin!

  “It’s out of the question, Galia Egorova.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “What do they want me to do? Act a scene, recite a poem? Do I have to learn something?”

  “No, no!”

  Egorova stroked her cheek as she might have a child’s, pouting dreamily.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll manage. Joseph is very good at letting people know what he wants. And our plates will be piled high, I promise you. You’ll be able to eat your fill and more.”

  That argument alone would have been enough to win Marina over. How long had it been since she had last had a square meal? When had the glorious Russia of the Revolution begun to starve to death? Nobody from the Ukraine to Siberia would have had the courage to work it out. Besides, nobody refused an invitation from the Kremlin. It was tantamount to an order.

  And now there she was within its walls. The Gaz turned left and approached the Senate building. An avenue lined with half-naked maples appeared in the headlights. Lacy fingers clasped the nape of her neck and Egorova’s honeyed breath warmed her ear.

  “Nervous?”

  Marina spoke in a barely audible whisper.

  “Why did I ever listen to you, Galia Egorova? My stomach’s tied itself in such knots that I won’t be able to eat a bite.”

  “Oh yes you will, Marinotchka!”

  Egorova gave a small satisfied laugh.

  “Tell yourself that it’s no more difficult than going onstage on the first night—easier, even. Everything will be just fine. Joseph is a fantastic audience.”

  The car edged up to another guard post but didn’t have to stop. As soon as the soldiers recognized the pennant on the grill, they stood to attention with impeccable military style.

  Egorova added in a whisper, “Joseph loves dancing. You won’t get out of it, but, a word of warning, he reeks of tobacco. Anyone would think he emptied his pipe residue on his jacket. It’s vile. And be careful, his wife is the stupidest woman in the world.”

  “Nadezhda Alliluyeva … ? Will she be there?”

  “Of course! Nadia is never far from her Joseph.”

  “Is she beautiful?”

  “She has the look of a Bolshevik gypsy, if you like that kind of thing. And she’s the most jealous prima donna that Saint Lenin ever conceived.”

  Egorova stopped cackling at the very moment the car engine cut out. The Gaz had drawn to a halt fifty feet from the Senate’s façade. The “Holy of Holies” of the Soviet regime gleamed in the floodlights. Cossacks in black cloaks with golden tassels were lined up from one end of the high red gate to the other. Strapped across their backs, the handles of their sabres were poking over their shoulders and their short assault rifles were cradled in their arms like sleeping infants. The steel of their bayonets glistened in the frost.

  Egorova’s lips brushed Marina’s temple.

  “Don’t forget, tomorrow when you go back onstage, you’ll be a queen.”

  “Or he’ll have hated me, and two heavies from the secret police will pay me a visit!”

  “That’s not going to happen to you, Marinotchka! You’re far too smart and gentle for that.”

  The Senate building was a real labyrinth. Corridors and staircases led to courtyards and porches, then more corridors and more staircases. Here and there, guards appeared from nowhere. It took more than a smile to get past them. Egorova had to show their passes.

  Finally, the actresses’ steps echoed down a long hallway. Babbling voices could be heard through the only door in sight. The maids greeted them with icy glares. Egorova and Marina went through to a round lobby where the couches were already buried under piles of coats. No sooner had they taken off their cloaks than it seemed as though they were plunged into another world.

  The Voroshilov’s reception room was much longer than it was wide. A regiment of wall lamps shone brighter than day. Mahogany panels and bookcases lined the walls. From the high windows with their smart frames, you could make out the crenelated wall and floodlit crown of Lenin’s tomb. At the foot of the bookcases, the high-backed armchairs with their velvet cushions were fitted with metal ashtrays. Despite the bulky furniture, there was still plenty of room for the huge oval dining table. Marina had never seen anything like it. The immaculate tablecloth was as big as a sail. The beautifully fluted crystal glasses and carafes glittered like diamonds. All the plates and dishes were gold rimmed. Cascades of roses and dahlias spilled out of huge hand-painted vases. Silver baskets were piled high with thick slabs of the finest white and black bread.

  Marina had never come across such an ostentatious display of beauty, wealth, and latent gluttony. She was rooted to her spot, feeling faint. Blood rushed to her temples. Egorova gave her hand a squeeze. A hush fell over the room. About twenty heads, men’s and women’s, had turned to look at them.

  Actually, they were only looking at her.

  They were examining her from head to toe, gauging her fear, her confidence, and goodness knows what else. It couldn’t have escaped them that her hands were shaking.

  Egorova had been right. It was like going onstage.

  Marina slipped her hand out of Egorova’s. Now wasn’t the time to be acting like a little girl. She was dying to sink her teeth into one of those slabs of white bread but managed to find the strength to smile from somewhere deep down. Her eyes darted anxiously from face to face. They were looking at her mockingly, on the lookout for a faux pas. One glance should have been enough to identify him in that crowd of men. Though she had only ever seen Stalin once or twice from a distance during those interminable parades in Red Square, of course she’d seen his picture in the papers and painted on posters. She’d come across pictures of most of the people in front of her, but everybody knew that photographs and posters could turn out to be a far cry from the reality.

  But no, there was no Comrade Stalin. Some of the men in front of her had mustaches similar to his, or thick black wavy Caucasian hair combed back like his, but he wasn’t there. She was quite sure of it.

  At least she had
no trouble recognizing their great hero and host, Kliment Voroshilov. She curtsied to him and to old Kalinin, the president of the Soviet Republic in the flesh. He was a keen theatregoer and particularly enjoyed dance. In the dressing rooms, he was known as “Daddy.” Always dressed in an old-fashioned wool suit, he had a watch chain dangling from his waistcoat and a gray goatee. His nose was bulbous under his round spectacles and his eyes birdlike.

  Then there was Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov, chairman of the Council of People’s Commissars. His portrait was pinned up in the dressing rooms at the Vakhtangov Theatre. All the old actresses were in love with him. They had voted him the most elegant man in the politburo and had drawn hearts and daisies on the collar of one of his white shirts. He looked just like his portrait. A red-spotted indigo tie at the neck of an immaculate white shirt with its long pointed collar completed his Western-style suit. The smile under his carefully combed mustache was sardonic. He was nearsighted and his glasses magnified his intense but vaguely indifferent gaze.

  But as for the others … Who were those women in black dresses, their hair pulled back off their apple cheeks and ample bosoms, powdered and made-up like wise but distant mothers? They were the exact opposite of Egorova.

  And who were those men buttoned stiffly into their wool jackets and uniforms? Their features were heavy and hardened with lines, as if the ordeals they had needed to endure to make it that far, into the world of aristocratic luxury, had fashioned the same mask for them all.

  How could she have been anything but intimidated? After all, were they not the real characters of the Revolution? No, they were not characters, but real large-as-life heroes, whereas she herself was a “partyless” nobody.

  Not yet twenty years old, she had only been in Moscow for two years. She had lived for and dreamed only of the theatre. Unless politics was in some way linked to the theatre, it bored her. What did she know about the Revolution? The same as most people knew, and that was not a lot. Words, tirades, and roles were authorized in scenes one day, censored the next. And outside the theatre, politics meant endless blathering meetings. She loathed such gatherings. They were forums for nothing but bickering and abuse, people who talked endlessly without ever saying anything. Not to mention the fact that politics was also to blame for the secret police and, by then, famine.