The Birobidzhan Affair: A Novel Page 4

  Nadezhda Alliluyeva didn’t say a word. For two or three seconds, there was silence. The maids chose just that moment to clear away the dishes and bring in more carafes and pastries. The atmosphere lightened. Leaning on Marina’s shoulder, old Kalinin got to his feet and tapped his knife on a glass to attract attention.

  Washington, June 22, 1950

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

  SHE BROKE OFF. In the silence that followed, I could have sworn I heard the chime of the knife on the glass.

  She had been talking for almost an hour. The stenotype machines had accelerated to a gallop to keep up with her. She had hardly paused to catch her breath between sentences. The whole room hung on her every word, listening for her turns of phrase, watching the play of her hands. Marina Andreyeva Gousseiev knew how to tell a story; there was no doubt about it.

  She drank a glass of water, then filled it again and drank some more. Her chignon had started to come loose. She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, such a delicate, elegant gesture.

  In the lengthening silence, her voice and accent continued to ring in our ears. Scenes from the extraordinary dinner flashed through our minds. I used the idle time to jot down some notes.

  I tried to imagine her at twenty. In my mind’s eye, I saw her slimmer and suppler, her eyes a softer blue, a fabulous clear blue. I wondered if she had been wearing any jewelery that evening at the Kremlin. Had she put on a necklace or some earrings? She hadn’t said. Or could it be that the Bolshevik top brass didn’t go in for that kind of thing? They might get drunk and gorge themselves on the sly, yes, but they wouldn’t stoop to bourgeois jewelery.

  A little alarm bell rang in my head. My interest in this woman was taking an all too familiar turn.

  Chief Investigator Cohn glanced at his watch and exchanged looks with the congressmen. While she had been telling her story, McCarthy, Nixon, and their congressional pals had been lapping it up behind their table. A communist was giving them such a vivid account of Stalin’s life that they felt as though they were seeing scenes from it unfold before their very eyes, Bolshevik vices and excesses brought to them on the big screen. All their lives they had dreamed of this moment, and now it had come. Of course they couldn’t wait to find out what happened next.

  With a signal from President Wood, Cohn leaned in toward the microphone.

  “Miss Gousseiev … ”

  She silenced him with a gesture.

  “You can’t know what that dinner meant to a girl like me right in the middle of a famine. Bear in mind that the streets were overrun with kids with swollen stomachs and women as thin as corpses. Old men had taken to killing dogs and rats for food. … Then there was the fear of winter. People were coming to the theater purely because they couldn’t stand the cold of their homes. We would act from morning till night just to take our minds off of how hungry we were. The lines were just words trotted out to kill time. We were acting out the parts of revolutionary heroes, but nobody believed in it anymore. It was like telling a story. The older generation remembered the civil war, after the coup in 1917. At the time … ”

  Wood’s gavel fell with a bang. Everyone jumped.

  “Miss Gousseiev! We’re not here for a lesson on Soviet history.”

  “The dinner at the Kremlin changed my life.”

  Cohn sprang into action.

  “What does it have to do with Agent Apron?”

  “You can call him what you like. I only ever knew Michael Apron.”

  “Agent Apron wasn’t in Moscow in 1932.”

  Cohn smiled smugly. She didn’t bother to reply but simply looked down at her hands, or right through them, recalling some dim and distant memory.

  Wood was losing patience.

  “Answer the question, Miss Gousseiev.”

  She didn’t give in immediately. After a pause, she shrugged her shoulders.

  “On the evening of the dinner, when old Kalinin got up, he wanted to calm Stalin down. There was to be no more talk of famine and Nadezhda Alliluyeva was to hold her tongue. I didn’t know it at the time, but everyone was wary of her. She was the only one capable of taking a stand against Stalin. The others always bent over backward to please him, but she didn’t. She spoke her mind. That scared them to death. So Kalinin started talking about the Jews to change the subject. He announced that Birobidzhan was going to be the new Jewish autonomous region. The decision had been made with Comrade Stalin’s approval. It was a great moment for Jewish people everywhere. For the first time in two thousand years, the Jews would have a homeland. Kalinin was very proud of himself.”

  “Where is Birobidzhan, Miss Gousseiev? Nobody here has ever heard of it, or knew that the communists had created a Jewish state.”

  Cohn flashed his gigolo smile. She shot him a frosty look.

  “Well, perhaps you’re not as good a Jew as you’d have us believe then, Mr. Chief Investigator. Plenty of Jews in New York and Los Angeles know about Birobidzhan, and have for a long time.”

  “Miss Gousseiev!”

  Wood hammered his gavel furiously, but to no avail. The damage was done. Everyone was laughing, congressmen and clerks alike. Cohn’s cheeks turned a beautiful shade of crimson.

  The Russian didn’t give Wood a chance to launch into one of his sermons. She knew how to play it. Very calmly, as if she were the one calling the tune, she silenced the laughter as a conductor might, with a wave of her hands.

  “But that is precisely what everyone asked Kalinin that evening. ‘Tell us, Mikhail Nikolayevich, where is Birobidzhan?’ Voroshilov went to fetch a map, or maybe it was Molotov. I don’t remember. Anyway, Stalin pointed his knife at a stretch of steppe as big as the Ukraine by the Amur River on the Manchurian border. Back then, Birobidzhan was a village made up of a few wooden shacks, the kind of nowhere place you might find anywhere in Siberia, five hundred miles away from Vladivostok. Polina Molotova burst out, ‘Do you mean to send all the Jews to camps, Joseph?’”

  Her eyelids were half closed. Lips trembling, she went on.

  “Stalin burst out laughing, a child’s belly laugh. ‘Polina, Polina, Polina,’ he said. Her name sounded like a caress from his lips. Polina Molotova blushed. She wasn’t in the least bit angry anymore, quite the opposite, in fact. That’s another thing that Stalin has a knack for, playing you for a fool, but ever so tenderly, as if it were a quality in you.”

  She looked around at us, as if she were calling us as witnesses. The congressmen didn’t move a muscle. She went on, adding emphasis to her words with little gestures.

  “Then Kalinin and Stalin explained why it was such a brilliant idea. Since the Revolution, the Bolsheviks had already done a lot for the Jews. They no longer lived in ‘restricted areas’; they could choose where they worked. In short, they were comrades and citizens just like everybody else. They were a people like any other in the great Soviet Union, except that they still didn’t have a homeland or country. The Jews had been dreaming of their Israel forever and a day. ‘Well,’ said Stalin, ‘we, the Bolsheviks, are going to make that dream come true. It’s what all the Jews throughout the world have ever dreamed of. We’re going to give them a country, Birobidzhan, the Israel of Siberia!’ Polina Molotova was dumbstruck. She’s Jewish, as were many of her colleagues in the politburo at the time, including Kaganovich and Bukharin. … And if the men weren’t Jewish, their wives were. Kalinin laughed and then elaborated, ‘They’ll be free. Birobidzhan will be an independent oblast like any other in the Soviet Union. They’ll work the land, and it’ll still be better than having the kulaks do it. At least there’ll be no fear of famine there. … ’ Stalin added, ‘They’ll speak Yiddish, not Hebrew. Hebrew does well enough for the synagogues, but Yiddish has been their real language for the last millennium. They’ll eat, dance, and sing in Yiddish. It’ll be perfect: one language, one people, one country. We Bolsheviks like to think of it as our recipe for happiness!’ That was the gist of their discussion, with more
toasts, of course. It lasted for a while. I can’t remember how long. I was only half listening. I wasn’t all that interested.”

  Cohn sniggered, “You weren’t interested in the fate of the Jews then, Miss Gousseiev?”

  “At the time, I was more preoccupied with how the evening was going to end for me.”

  “Didn’t you like the Jews?”

  “Not at the time, no.”

  “Aha! So you’ve changed your mind since, have you?”

  “I was barely twenty. I held the same views as the next person.”

  “Do you mean to say that the Russians don’t like the Jews?”

  “Not any more than this Committee seems to like them, judging by the accounts I’ve read in the papers, at any rate.”

  She said it calmly, without taking her eyes off Cohn. It was like a sharp slap in the face, and that’s how he took it, with a wince. A dissenting murmur ran round the room. A sharp voice rose above the rest.

  “Miss … Miss Gee … whatever-your-name-is, if you continue to take that tone, I’ll ask President Wood to adjourn the hearing, and you’ll go straight to jail. You’re not here to pass comment on this Committee.”

  It was Nixon, bent over his microphone like a vulture. She turned to him and smiled—the first real smile I’d seen her give. It was dazzling, rueful, and profound all at once, without a trace of fear. I couldn’t get over it. She was enjoying herself.

  “That’s where you’re going to send me anyway, isn’t it, sir? To jail? Whatever I say, that’s how it’s going to end. We all know that.”

  No, she wasn’t enjoying herself, as I realized a few days later. She had a burning need to talk, to tell her story. To her, talking was as vital as breathing or eating. It didn’t matter that she happened to be talking to the Committee, or perhaps it was her best hope of reaching the largest possible audience? She simply had to get the whole story out of her system. So however intent Cohn, Wood, Nixon, and McCarthy might be on calling her out, none of them came even close to frightening her.

  She kept smiling.

  “You wanted the truth. Well, there it is. That’s exactly what I’m telling you, the truth as I know it. And the truth is that I didn’t like the Jews at the time for much the same reasons as everyone else felt the same. ‘The Jews were too such-and-such and not such-and-such enough, too clever, too smart, and too rich. Too many of them are lawyers, doctors, teachers, musicians, actors … ’ At the time, before Birobidzhan, Moscow was crawling with Jewish actors. There were Jewish theaters everywhere, in all the major towns, and they were a phenomenal success! The Bolsheviks themselves had lost count of the number of Jews in their country. The fact that the Jewish people had been persecuted, massacred, and prevented from leading normal lives for the past two thousand years was conveniently forgotten! So, back in November 1932, I was the perfect anti-Semite, yes, more anti-Semitic than Stalin, that’s for sure. If he’d announced that evening that he was going to send all the Jews to camps, as Polina Molotova put it, it would’ve been all the same to me. Or I would have been all in favor of it. At least then the theaters would be rid of them. That’s the truth. I was a little fool and didn’t yet know what life had in store for me.”

  She stopped to take a sip of water. Cohn fiddled with his papers to avoid meeting her gaze. The Committee members sat as still as statues, like enigmatic sphinxes. Senator Mundt ran his hand across his high intellectual brow and avoided making eye contact with his fellow congressmen. McCarthy and Nixon would have had no trouble recognizing themselves in the picture of the perfect anti-Semite that she had just painted.

  She went on, but softly, as if talking to herself.

  “Truth be told, I didn’t understand much of what was going on around me that evening. I stuffed myself as if I wasn’t expecting to eat again for a whole year, but at the same time, I was frightened. Not that I can say I minded when Stalin’s eyes lingered on me. He seemed to like what he saw. I wasn’t an actress to no purpose. It was flattering to know that the general secretary admired me enough to watch me dine at his table. Even if life had already taught me that everything has its price. When everybody around you is starving, nobody’s going to offer you caviar for free. Nevertheless, when Stalin got up to go and put a record on the gramophone, I had only one thought. I wished that Joseph Stalin had never laid eyes on me.”

  And she was off again. She was back to telling her story, and nobody—not even Cohn or Wood—could bring themselves to protest.

  The Kremlin, Moscow

  Night of November 8, 1932

  THE GRAMOPHONE WAS AN American Ericson, a huge, very modern-looking contraption with a black glossy finish. Its red brass horn unfurled like a giant flower, reflecting grotesque images whenever anyone went near. The only machine of its kind in the whole of the USSR, it was Stalin’s prized possession. It was up to him, and him alone, to put records on the turntable, lift the pickup arm, and lower the stylus into the spiral of grooves. Nobody else was allowed to touch it.

  All the guests around the table were watching him as his pale, stubby fingers delicately maneuvered the glittering silver mechanism. The stylus lolloped on the Bakelite. The music struck out like a fist. The harsh, feverish tones of the orchestra blared, accompanied by the soft tremulous tones of a woman’s voice.

  It was the opera, Italian opera of all things!

  Stalin smiled. With his right hand, he pretended to conduct the music, conveying a roundness that the gramophone did not do justice. The woman’s voice rose in a plaintive moan, then died away. As the orchestra swelled, the violins gave out a tinny, metallic sound, with crackling between notes. The record must have been played a thousand times before. Then, after two notes from the organ or the clarinet, Joseph sang over the tenor.

  Chi son? Sono un poeta.

  Che cosa facio? Scrivo.

  E como vivo? Vivo … [3]

  Marina’s jaw dropped as she realized what a fool she must look like in front of the Committee. Who would believe her account of the scene? Stalin singing Italian opera, and well at that, displaying taste and talent, his head tipped back ever so slightly, his mouth round and trembling, his cheeks pink, his hands continually waving in front of his chest? His voice was well rounded, confident and silky, as if the tobacco had left his throat unharmed.

  Per sogni e per chimere

  E per castelli in aria

  L’anima ho millionaria.[4]

  At the time, Marina had been staggered. She had felt like laughing and clapping her hands like an enthralled child. Here was a new mask, a new Stalin. And who could resist this one?

  The last chord was lost in the applause. Stalin bowed, his gold-tinted eyes sparkling with pleasure. He signaled to Voroshilov to come over while he changed the record. An old song from the Orthodox liturgy, “Mnogaya Leta,” meaning “many years,” reverberated through the gramophone horn. Stalin and Voroshilov stood with their arms around each other’s waists. Voroshilov turned out to be quite a decent baritone. The two voices complemented each other beautifully. At the third chorus, Uncle Avel, Budionny, and Sergo Ordzhonikidze stood up to join them. Their powerful voices drowned out the music playing on the gramophone. The guests’ chests throbbed. Their singing was beautiful and tender, like a feeling long since forgotten. The performance closed with thunderous laughter, bravos, and the clinking of glasses.

  Afterward, the chairs, tables, and armchairs were pushed back as though it had all been part of the program. In the twinkling of an eye, the room was transformed into a dance floor. Stalin swiveled back the pickup arm and laid another record on the turntable. The notes of tambourines, flutes, and a single violin blended into a jigging rhythm. A hand closed around Marina’s fingers. It was the handsome Mikoyan, all smiles.

  “Don’t you know the lezginka, Marina Andreyeva? Come on, don’t be shy. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  Mikoyan steered her between the forming couples. There was a bit of a scramble. Stalin and Egorova were already on the dance floor. The others were st
ruggling to pick up the rhythm. Marina concentrated on Mikoyan’s instructions. He was a remarkable dancer. His body was supple and erect. He had a firm touch but didn’t press her too close. The lezginka was all twirls, hops, skips, and jumps. There were also two crossover steps to dance with your partner. Marina tripped, stumbled, and laughed when she had to hang on to Mikoyan. He didn’t take advantage but started her off again and coaxed her, taking his role of teacher seriously.

  “Off you go! That’s all there is to it! Do another twirl, Marina Andreyeva. … Don’t let go of my hand. Good, good! See what a fast learner you are! That’s good to know. You’re a born dancer as well as a born actress.”

  Still sitting in one of the armchairs that had been pushed aside, old Kalinin was laughing his head off. Every time the dancers twirled, he would spin his empty glass around. The lezginka wound up in a frenzied rhythm. Marina struggled to keep up with Mikoyan. Biting her lip, she clutched his wrist. Now he was making the most of every opportunity to pull her close.