Michael Davidson - In the Shadow of Mordor

She called out for him and tried to calm the dog, which at last fell silent. Instead of Pasha a tall, thin old lady with a wrinkled face appeared in the doorway. She affected an aristocratic bearing and spoke antiquated Russian in a high voice. The old fashioned clothing and manners seemed ridiculous, like an old Shapoklyak cartoon.

This was the granddaughter of hereditary Russian nobility, Marya Fedorovna Golovina. When her parents were sent to the camps to die, a great aunt took her in. But in 1968 while still a 20-year-old student she was arrested “for anti-Soviet propaganda and agitation.” Ten years in the Gulag followed, and she returned to find herself in the midst of Soviet end of times stagnation, disgraced and needed by no one.

For the next ten years she worked as a janitor, living in a small set of rooms on the same street in Maliy Karetniy Pereulok , in the heart of old Moscow, not far from the Hermitage Gardens. When Perestroika began she devoted her life to the collection of information on victims of repression she hoped might be rehabilitated. She converted her old janitor’s quarters into a sort of registry of victims of political repression and soon received the first foreign grants from an educational society with vague human rights inclinations. Despite this, Marya Fedorovna remained eccentric, like someone released from prison only yesterday.

Golovina’s dramatic history didn’t impress Olga. She didn’t obsess about Stalinist repression. What bothered Olga was the way this old, overdressed hen drew parallels between Soviet totalitarianism and life in today’s Russia. For that matter, Olga had nothing in particular against Stalin, but the subject was controversial, and comparisons with the current president could not be tolerated. As far as she was concerned the president had transformed a country devastated and impoverished during the Yeltsin years into a strong and prosperous state.

Golovina simply could not be appeased. She went from one institute or university after another spreading her poisonous opinions. Even worse, she did this for American money. It was as if the old lady was offended by the entire world and truly hated Russia. She wanted only one thing — to destroy her country and grind it to dust just like she and others like her destroyed the Soviet Union. And so, when the chief told her there would be a meeting today between Golovina and a representative of the American Embassy, Olga happily volunteered to participate in a provocation.

And now here was Golovina right in front of her staring at the report in Olga’s hand. The old lady took a step toward her with a shriek. “Put that down immediately, and get out of here, all of you.”

Olga was at once amused and frightened. What might a crazy old woman do?

“Where is Pasha?” she asked, “Let’s see how much money you spent on anti-Russian activities last month.” She began turning the pages of the report. “So, showing a film about the political prisoner Sergey Litvinov at the Colosseum Theater. Well! Seven hundred dollars. Was that to rent the hall, or was it that Litvinov wouldn’t take less?”

An amused voice sounded from behind the old woman. “And since when was Litvinov a political prisoner?”

Olga breathed a sigh of relief. It was Pasha.

He sauntered into the office, unceremoniously shoved Golovina aside and stuck the video recorder in her face.

“And how do you explain Litvinov’s theft of ten million dollars when he worked for an oil company? The court confirmed this. And his speeches calling for revolution in Russia? Do you really think someone calling for the violent overthrow of the legally elected authorities is a political prisoner? Or did the guy in the next room from the American Embassy teach you to talk like that?”

Pasha was a big man and could be overpowering. The old lady reddened before turning on him with unexpected fury.

“You’re just children, nothing but children. Someday you’ll be ashamed of what you’re doing here. You think your little camera gives you the right to interrupt a private meeting? Have you learned nothing from life, from suffering and loss? You’re not worth even the little finger of the people you bully.”

Olga felt a fleeting vestige of shame and pity. But the hysterical notes in the rights activist’s voice had no such effect on Pasha. He took a determined step to Olga’s side, snatched the report from her hands, and laid it out on the desk. He began photographing the document all the while cursing under his breath. With a yelp, Golovina threw herself at him and tried to grab the papers. With a guffaw, Pasha easily shoved her away and resumed taking pictures while the old lady circled him, trying to retrieve the report from behind his broad back.

Despite herself, Olga was embarrassed. “Pasha…”

But the big man was ranting as he read parts of the document. “This is best of all. The organization and training of election observers. Elections! Just tell me where there is any repression. Now we can show how so-called human rights activists plan to interfere in politics with foreign money.”

“It’s nothing like that.” Golovina’s voice was thin and shrill as she continued to hop around Pasha like an animated scarecrow. “We don’t participate in elections. Observers only monitor the integrity of the procedure.”

“To hell with you and your Americans. Go to America and observe elections there.”

He was interrupted by Vovchik’s voice from the corridor. “Guys, let’s get out of here. One of her friends arrived and called for reinforcements. They’ll arrive any minute.”

Pavel froze for a beat to assess the situation. He shot a hard look at Olga who was staring at the old woman. “What’s the matter with you?”

She turned to him and thought she detected a hint of suspicion in his eyes. The very idea that her friends might suspect her of sympathizing with the enemy was unacceptable.

“You old witch,” she yelled as she ran after Pasha to the exit. She almost tripped over the dog and stretched out a hand to one of the metal racks to regain her balance. The fragile structure swayed, but she didn’t notice. She turned in the doorway in time to see the entire row of racks topple, bringing others down with it in a flurry of paper and crumbling cardboard.

The room was instantly obscured by a cloud of dust as yellowed photos and death sentences performed a macabre ballet in the air. Olga raced down the corridor and up the stairs, out of the dark basement back into the warm embrace of a late summer day in Moscow.

Gleb Solntsev beamed at the small group gathered around him. Olga held her breath in anticipation. Even after three years she still reacted to his every utterance and gesture like a schoolgirl who wished for his approval more than anything in the world.

“This is wonderful,” said Solntsev. “I offer praise rarely, but this time you outdid yourselves. The State Department report is especially significant. The day after tomorrow it will be the subject of an NTV exposé, and a fire will be lit under the old viper.”

Everyone laughed, and Olga laughed with them, not because she shared the schadenfreude of her boss; she was simply thrilled to be included. An almost physical warmth united them in the camaraderie of their special mission.

The main office of the Kremlin youth organization known as “ Svoi ” («Свои» — “ours”) in contrast to the cellar at Maliy Karetniy Pereulok was spacious and well lighted. Through the window, the sun lit a space on the wall where, in a place of honor under the bright stripes of the Russian flag hung a portrait of the president, on his face the steely gaze of the Chekist, the condescending irony of the eternal winner. Olga had been as close to the man as she now was from his portrait. Three years ago when he visited her youth camp he sat on a folding chair right next to her tent as he talked about the country and the vast prospects open to her youth.