Val Karren - The Deceit of Riches

“Yes, perhaps you are correct,” Valentina had to concede.

“How then are your history studies progressing? I understood that the Dean had asked you to prepare an article for his annual journal. Have you made progress on a topic to research?” she was now getting the heart of the matter.

“Yes, ma’am. I have and I am making good progress and finding materials to support my academic format,” I was being very vague on purpose.

“Are you getting the needed support from the faculty there as needed?” she advanced again.

“Yes, ma’am. Both the Dean and other professors are very accessible for me,” I stalled.

“What is it you are researching, may I ask?” she wouldn’t stop kicking the hornets’ nest.

“I am researching and writing about the current privatization process of state enterprises. I have held interviews at the World Bank office, visited a privatization auction and Dean Karamzin is trying to set up an interview with Governor Nemtsov, but he seems to be a very busy man, and the Sannings are also a great resource as they give perspective to the foreign investment aspect of joint venture companies.” I was not lying, just avoiding telling the entire truth.

“It does sound very interesting. I will look forward to reviewing your paper before you publish it.” Was Valentina telling me that she was required to censor my research? “Will you be interviewing local businessmen for this research as well?” I sensed that the hornets had already been stirred.

“I am not well acquainted with private entrepreneurs in the city. If you know of any that would be appropriate I would love to meet and interview some,” I was on the edge of untruth.

“Peter, it has come to my attention that you have been researching some very sensitive topics and that you have been using the university’s database at the American library to support your thesis.” Valentina was now setting herself up directly against me and my efforts.

“Yes, ma’am. Why shouldn’t I be allowed to research using the university’s resources? I paid my tuition in cash, in dollars for that privilege. Arkadiy was my witness, remember?” I remained on the offensive.

Valentina paused to consider her next move in our cerebral game of chess and looked at me to see if I was threatening her in any way. We both knew what I was referring to. I looked her square in the face without blinking and with no expression on mine.

“It is the university’s request that you refrain from any further research into local activities and concentrate on the political and policy developments of your topic,” was Valentina’s measured retort.

“I have done nothing but look at political and policy developments, and the best examples of how to avoid the problems of the last few years with privatization are happening right here in Nizhniy Novgorod. How can I ignore the local developments when all of Russia is focused on what is happening here in Nizhniy?” After this Valentina had only one further move; pulling rank.

“Mr. Turner the university will not be at risk by reckless academics. I have allowed you considerable leeway to live out of the dormitories and to allow you to study history and politics with Dean Karamzin, which was not a part of your application to study with us at this school. You are a student of linguistics and literature, not politics. If you will not refrain from questioning respected businessmen in accusatory tones then your credentials will be revoked and you will be asked to leave immediately.” She had shown her hand and she wasn’t bluffing anymore.

“I’m sorry. What are you referring to? Who did I interview in accusatory tones?” I was thoroughly annoyed.

“Mr. P. is a respected businessman in Nizhniy Novgorod and is a friend, patron and sponsor of this university. You are not to pursue any of the points in your discussion with him in your research or your article for the school journal. Is that clear?” Valentina was getting a bit red in the face.

“I would be very interested to learn what part of our discussion was accusatory at all. I was very professional. I listened, took notes and he sang like a canary. I only had to ask him maybe three questions and I got his life story. Accusations? There were no accusations, Valentina,” I was adamant. “If there is anybody in Nizhniy Novgorod that is active with the whole privatization process it is Mr. P.! Of course, I should interview him. He is the city’s go to man for efforts to privatize many types of businesses,” I insisted.

“Mr. P. demands that on no account should any parts of his interview with you be published in your paper. Is that clear Mr. Turner?” Valentina had put her foot down.

“Dean Karamzin is fully supportive of my research and is overseeing my thesis. He has given full academic freedom in this paper. His quote was ‘Stalin has been dead a very long time’.” I was now pulling as many stripes off the Dean’s sleeve as possible to keep from being censored, “If I am not allowed to continue under the Dean’s guidance without interference then I will not continue at this university next term, and my fifteen-hundred dollars in cash tuition money will not be at your disposal.” My threats were no longer veiled.

“Publishing your research with the name of Mr. P. or any of his associates will be dangerous to this university, your fellow foreign students and for yourself. Under no conditions can you use the information that you learned from your interview with him. Is that clear?” She was yelling now and slapping her hand on her desk. “You will turn in to me any and all notes that you took during that interview.”

I took my notebook out containing all the notes about Mr. P. and ripped out the pages and left them on her desk.

“Read them! You will see for yourself there was nothing at all accusatory in the questions of mine that implied anything but being interested in how he began his growing private enterprises as an entrepreneur. I cannot imagine what he understood to be compromising. There is nothing in those notes that should make anybody worry about anything. In fact, I thought his ability to grow a business in these times to be rather clever and was going to write it just like that. Anyhow, there you have all my notes about Mr. P. Burn them if you want to.”

I stormed out of Valentina’s office and left the building altogether in a rage. As I crossed the street to the bus stop heading back to Gorkiy Square I had forgotten about my tail until I saw him throw away his cigarette and stamp it out with his gleaming white shoes. “What an idiot!” I thought to myself. He came and stood near to me to wait for the same bus. I paid him still no attention and did not try to elude him at all. My movements through the city were hardly a state secret. I was headed to Minin Square to speak with the Dean as this had all been his idea to begin with.

I arrived at Minin Square to see tall risers and stages being put into place for the viewing of the parades of workers, trucks, cannons, and tanks that would be held there. The red flag of the Soviet Union was hung on every street corner, the yellow hammer and sickle visible in the breeze. The university buildings were draped in banners and flags with the emblems of the different branches of the armed forces. The square itself had been cleared up as well. Rubbish bins had been emptied and painted in the city’s coat of arms. The gutters had been swept and washed and the flower beds were all teaming with newly planted pansies and red geraniums. The grass areas were cordoned off to protect it from being trampled by the crowds that would assemble. It had never looked more pleasant. Billboards were being renewed with nostalgic propaganda posters of the Red Army from 1944 and 1945, calling attention to their heroic efforts fighting back the Nazis. These posters reminded us again not to be chatty on the telephone as you never know who was listening! We were encouraged to contribute to the war effort by foregoing luxuries and sending any extra socks or boots to our soldiers on the front line. My favorite was a young man in a stormtrooper’s uniform, carrying a rifle and with an enthusiastic smile who was waving his comrades forward with the tagline “All the way to Berlin, boys!” How glorious they made it all look.