Michael Davidson - In the Shadow of Mordor

Three years ago while still a high-school senior she accepted a classmate’s invitation to her first “ Svoi ” meeting. The huge auditorium was filled with young people of all sorts, from schoolchildren to young adults, even some families. She was captivated.

On that occasion Gleb Solntsev entered her life — the creator and founder of the organization. He was still in his mid-40’s, decisive and charming, and Olga thought he was incredibly handsome. He treated everyone informally but radiated such authority that no one thought of disobeying him.

He was passionate, and this helped him organize and inspire. He was like a magnet to young hearts, subduing them through strength of character and dedication. He could be tactless and rude, but no one held it against him because they all knew how much he cared about them. Olga was entranced by this mixture of fervor and cold calculation.

He was accessible to one and all but still inscrutable, and every personal conversation with him left her with vain worries about what Gleb really thought when he answered her naïve questions and heard her suggestions. She was still too distant from him, a newcomer to his exciting world. Gleb was a veteran of the FSB where he had distinguished himself in some secret operation. He was invited to join the presidential administration where he became involved in youth policy.

There was always somebody around him, beginning with recruits to the movement with whom Solnstev always spoke a long time one-on-one, and ending with officials and even the president. She learned not to be jealous of the crowds and to be satisfied to be on the edge of his immeasurably busy life.

They often talked on the run, during noisy meetings, or quick telephone conversations. For a long time Gleb did not include her among his most trusted people, those who undertook the most delicate tasks, such as the disruption of Golovina’s meeting with the American diplomat. Solntsev discussed such operations with them privately, without witnesses. And now Olga was part of this privileged group.

“And I didn’t get into the picture,” she said in mock offense at the praise. “Even though it was I who found the report and began to read it, too. Pasha came in later. I was afraid that that crazy old woman would kill me on the spot.”

“You did everything just right,” said Gleb. “Don’t worry about not being in the video. It may be for the best. We may reserve your charming little face for more peaceful appearances.”

Turning to Pasha, he said, “In the future you must never allow anyone to be alone, not even for a short while. You saw that Olga was working alone and you should have backed her up immediately. You’re a team. There is no place for solos. Work smoothly, but always together — that’s our strength. Olga’s idea to knock down the old lady’s shelves is beyond praise. An excellent ad lib .”

Pasha’s large face clouded at the rebuke, and Olga started to protest that knocking over the shelves was an accident, but she could almost believe she’d done it on purpose, and she remained silent.

Only a few years ago Olga Polyanskaya could not have imagined ransacking the belongings of an old gulag survivor. But the organization taught her that some situations demand one to choose the lesser of two evils. After all, Golovina would not be shot or even fined. Olga and her companions only uncovered the truth — the very real fact of a meeting between the “rights” activist and an American. The unanticipated acquisition of the report justified everything. Golovina was a willing traitor to the Motherland. Any suffering and shame would be fitting payback.

“Can you just imagine what would happen if there were to be a revolution?” Gleb would say. “People like Golovina could cause the collapse of everything — heat, electricity, children playing in the yard, the carousels in the parks, peace, and the tranquility of hundreds of thousands of people. You can see, for example, what happened with the Libyans and Syrians. Ruin, bombing cities, chaos, packs of looters in the streets, poverty, destruction, and death. People don’t think about this because they can’t imagine how possible it is if traitors like Golovina come to power or raise the zombie liberals to revolution. Yesterday you saw that she and others like her are getting money from our main enemies like Williams who want to destroy our lives.”

He locked eyes with each of them in turn, judging their reaction.

“And our task is to demonstrate the horror of this western plague, to reveal all its rottenness, all the corruption, all the danger for our country. There should be no mercy for enemies and traitors.”

The organization recruited volunteers for the Donbas and inspired them to mercilessly exterminate “unholy evil.” He didn’t speak of the Americans in this regard. But what did it matter as she was with people dedicated to the defense of their country and the lives of hundreds and thousands of their fellow citizens? What could compare with this?

Gleb continued, “I reward good work. Next week there is a meeting in the Kremlin Palace for the President and patriotic youth organizations. It will be a big deal with a lot of media, including foreign journalists. You are to conduct yourselves well. Remain polite with no radicalism, no mention of our secret actions, nothing about what we discuss here. Do you understand? There’s an invitation for each of you.”

Olga was outrageously pleased, but she wouldn’t allow emotions to show. She’d learned to hide exultation behind mock coldness.

Mention of “the Motherland,” “secret actions,” or “meetings in the Kremlin” no longer elicited head-spinning passion or silly girlish delight. With each passing day the amorphous concept of “Motherland” coalesced within her. Only Gleb and his closest advisors understood such realities while ordinary people saw only what was in front of their noses.

The world was blind and existed in a flat, two-dimensional space. Olga sometimes imagined she was some sort of super human, aware of another reality. Without their organization quite a different reality might impose itself. She existed on a plane denied to ordinary Russians.

Komsomolskaya Ploshchad’, commonly known as the square of three train stations, grimy as usual and submerged in the clamor and unchanging rhythm of Moscow, was in sharp contrast to the quiet of the provincial streets of Ryazan. Streams of impatient people jostled one another as they rushed to the Metro resigned to spending an hour or so in the hustle and bustle with transfers to lines serving the outskirts of the great city. During these hours the transportation network is packed tight with grumpy passengers shoving one another and banging on the train doors. Yet, even amidst such chaos some of them managed to pull out a book to read while resting it on someone’s back. This was Moscow.

Impervious to the evening bustle Sergey Illarionov squeezed into a car at Komsomolskaya Station. He was just back from a trip, on the trail of the most serious journalistic investigation of his career. The Dictaphone recording in his breast pocket contained danger as well as opportunity.

Illarionov didn’t doubt that that the testimony of former FSB Colonel Viktor Tretyakov was true. The numerous stratagems employed by the regional administration and the management of the detention facility to prevent the meeting confirmed his suspicions. Sergey was grateful for the resourceful human rights activists of the Public Oversight Commission that monitored the condition of prisoners. They overcame many obstacles to secure his meeting. Alarmed by the prospect of publicity and complaints to the regional procurator, the prison authorities reluctantly allowed him to see Tretyakov. They confiscated his video-recorder and Dictaphone. But Tretyakov’s lawyer had slipped him his own pocket recorder.