Michael Davidson - In the Shadow of Mordor

Sergey shuddered involuntarily at the mention of the man’s name. “Be careful with Solntsev. He’s very dangerous.”

“Sure, papa. I know all about him. And how many times have you written about him? Yeah, he’s a former Chekist who’s managed to re-create the Nazi brown shirts. He’s a rare breed. But where can he hide at a public event with a camera stuck in his face?”

Sergey considered whether he should share Tretyakov’s information with his son? Why should he hide from Vlad something he intended to publish in a few days for everyone to see? He had only to visit the expert and find out what happened to the Ryazan report. Such a reliable source for his sensational article would be more than enough. In a low voice he said, “No, Vlad. You don’t know everything about him. The man is a mass murderer. “

The palace glittered throughout its broad corridors and richly decorated halls. The foyer boasted a well-stocked bookstore, its counters laden with colorful booklets, vividly illustrated calendars bearing the image of the President, and the eternal matryoshkas and models of the Kremlin cathedrals. Symbols, posters, books, pictures — all combined to lend to the scene the delight of a fairground with its various attractions connected by slow-moving escalators that stretched between floors.

Through a spacious window of the long, endless dining hall the lower portion of the Russian crest could be seen, as if the double-headed eagle had alighted on the windowsill. Olga gazed spellbound, reveling in the nearness of this symbol of Russian power. The eagle gazed into the distance as he spread his golden wings, separated from her only by thin glass. He made her proud.

She turned back into the hall and imagined the beating heart of the Motherland manifested in the crowd of “ Svoi ” members. A kinship of the spirit, never more powerful than at this moment, reigned in the hall, and she immersed herself in it as though sinking into a warm embrace. She would be with these people to the very end. To be among them was to experience the elation of victory.

Solntsev approached and took her by the hand. “Olga, will you speak?”

She was confused, not knowing what pleased her most — his unexpected enthusiasm or the proposal.

“When?”

“Right now, immediately following the break. That is, first the President will speak, then me, and right after that — you.”

She nodded mutely, afraid she could not conceal her excitement. But why should she? She was nearly overwhelmed by emotion when Solntsev took her hand.

“What should I talk about?”

“Our educational and social activities. Talk about how we are positive and constructive, white as the driven snow. Remember, there are Yankees and other liberal scum in the hall. We must project a solid image. Understand?”

“Of course,” she nodded vigorously. She was frightened, but she could not risk Gleb becoming disenchanted with her and never trusting her with anything important again. She could do no less than succeed.

She barely heard Solntsev’s speech. She caught only his concluding remarks.

“Our history — a time of unprecedented Russian strength and power, the history of a great empire and untold misery, suffering, and inhuman ordeals. We have always stood in the way of the worst dangers that threatened the world…”

Solntsev’s amplified voice reverberated in the hall, and Olga feared that her lungs would burst with the incandescent air, the noise, the sound of his voice.

“We paid for the right of America to become a superpower. We paid for the right of Europe to live without concentration camps. The world turned away from us and fears us in the belief that we might hand them a bill for everything we have done for them, and then they would have to pay forever! The only way for the West to avoid paying their bill is to humiliate Russia…”

There was a burst of applause. Pride filled the room to the ceiling, a sense of superiority over the miserable and cowardly West.

Gleb’s voice boomed over them as if it descended from the sky. He continued in a lowered voice, businesslike and concise, the way he spoke at their internal meetings, “Our army was the most powerful in the world. We were the most heroic nation. It is unjust that a great country should have exited the world arena after all of this. It is unjust to live without pride. There is no one in the country besides you. Do this — for Russia for the sake of our history.”

He spoke like a father in his own peculiar, convincing manner. Olga was seized with terror as he stepped from the stage. How could she speak following that?

She couldn’t feel her own body as she stepped to the microphones under the gaze of thousands of eyes that suddenly seemed strange and demanding. She began to speak as if her entire life consisted of good deeds, as though she had never snatched the report from Golovina’s printer, as though she hadn’t overturned the shelves. This was for her country, her organization, and her leader, and should it be necessary she was prepared to lie about anything to anyone, even to God, if he existed.

The applause dissipated her fears like clouds carried away by a strong wind. She was a conqueror, a supremely strong being capable of anything, as she stepped from the stage into the crowd of enthusiastic supporters. From somewhere a video camera focused on her.

During the intermission, still euphoric from the attention and recognition, she walked out to the foyer to reap the benefits of her newfound fame. She was immediately surrounded by journalists, and one of them, a young and especially bold man, stepped toward her and said something completely unexpected.

“Olga. I would never have expected you to be with these fascists.”

She belatedly recognized him. Vlad — her former schoolmate and first adolescent love. He stared at her with a mixture of pity, confusion, and disgust. She took an involuntary step back.

They became fast friends in the seventh or eighth grade because they had been so alike. Common interests and a disdain for stereotypes united them in spite of their youth. At a time when young men fell in love with girls but were too shy to express it, the class seemed divided into irreconcilable sides. The boys talked about rock and roll and cars, tried out smoking, and surreptitiously watched porn. The girls flirted with older boys and university students and wore too much make-up, ignoring boys of their own age. But Vlad Illarionov brought computer printouts of world news and clippings of his father’s articles to school and shared them with Olga, eager for her opinion.

Vlad was fortunate in his bold and cheerful character. He was bright, lively, and interesting, and maybe because of this did not slack off in his studies like many of the other boys. He might unexpectedly demand that a teacher account for how money contributed by parents had been spent. Or instead of a movie he might suddenly invite Olga to visit the Cosmonaut Museum or go to an American jazz festival. He was interested in the world in all its variety, and when asked about plans for the future, Vlad always answered, “I want to do something worthwhile in life.”

Olga was one of the few who completely shared his dream of an uncommon, full, and meaningful life, full of challenges and successes. But had she not managed to realize those childhood dreams now when she occupied a solid position in the most advanced youth organization in the country, step by step changing the familiar world for the better?

Vlad’s life progressed in quite a different direction. Olga had not seen him since their senior prom, but knew that even as a university student he had fallen in with those very enemies and traitors against whom she now fought. His articles sometimes appeared in hostile publications, and they were vicious, anti-Russian, filled with hate and sarcastic bile.