Simon Montefiore - Sashenka

She kissed the children; she hugged Carolina; she dressed in her favorite cream suit with white buttons and the blouse with the big white collar; she touched behind her ears with some Red Moskva perfume. Greeting the janitor and the guards, she walked to work. Granovsky was an elegant street, the apartment building pink and ornate, a wonderful place to live. Down the road, behind, stood the Kremlevka where the best specialists had delivered her babies.

She came out of Granovsky near Moscow University, where Snowy and Carlo would study one day.

The zestful breeze danced around her and she smiled as she passed the Kremlin, beaming waves of affection at the charming little window of the exquisite Amusements Palace, right by the wall of the Alexander Gardens where Stalin had lived until the suicide of his wife Nadya. As she crossed the Manege and passed the National Hotel, she caught sight of the domed and triangular splendor of the Sovnarkom Building where Stalin worked and where he lived, where the light was on all night. Thank you, Comrade Stalin, you always know the right thing to do, she telegraphed to him mentally through the amber air of a sunny Moscow day. You met Snowy, you understand everything. Health and long life to you, Josef Vissarionovich!

Walking with her slightly bouncing step, she turned left up Gorky Street. On the right stood the building where Uncle Gideon lived in a roomy apartment, near other famous writers like Ilya Ehrenburg. Trucks growled down the street, carrying cement for the new Moskva Hotel that was rising like a noble stone temple; Lincolns and ZiS limousines swept down the avenue toward the Kremlin; a dappled horse and cart was stationed outside the Mayor’s office, a former palace. Moscow was still unformed, still that collection of villages, but she belonged here. Up the hill and over the top, Sashenka passed men and women working on the new buildings, militiamen on duty spinning their truncheons, children on their way to school, Young Pioneers with their red scarves. Before she reached the Belorussian Station, she saw the fine statue of Pushkin—and turned right down to Petrovka with its shabby stalls offering fried pirozhki.

At the office, she called the editors to sit at the T-shaped table. “Come in, comrades. Do sit! Let me hear your ideas for Comrade Stalin’s birthday issue in December.”

The days passed lightly and gracefully like new skates on glazed ice.

“Papa’s back!” cried Snowy.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Sashenka was in her nightie and housecoat. “Back to bed! It’s almost midnight.”

“Razum’s at the door with Daddy!”

“Daddy’s back?” Carlo, in blue pajamas, emerged all tousled from bed and stomped down the parquet corridor of the apartment.

“He’s at the door!” Snowy was jumping up and down. “Can we stay up? Please, Mama!”

“Of course!” She opened the door.

“Hello, Razum, you picked him up? He’s late as usual…”

“Stand back, no crap,” said Razum in an exaggerated voice with a blast of vodka and garlic. He stood, boots wide apart, pistol in his hand, in his usual shabby NKVD uniform. “Come on, boys, this is the place! See how they lived, see what the Party gave him, the fat boss—and see how he repaid it!”

Razum was not alone: four Chekists stood behind him, and behind them stood the janitor, sweaty and embarrassed, fiddling with his baroque bunch of a hundred keys. The Chekists filed past her into the apartment.

“Oh God, it’s started.” Sashenka’s legs almost gave way, and she leaned against the wall.

A senior officer, a narrow-faced commissar with two tabs, who was too thin for his overlarge uniform, stood in front of her. “Orders to search this apartment, orders signed by L. P. Beria, Narkom, NKVD.”

Razum elbowed this stick insect aside, so keen was he to be part of the operation. “We’ve arrested Palitsyn right at the Saratovsky Station at first light. He punched one of them, did Vanya Palitsyn.”

“That’s enough, comrade,” said the stick insect in charge.

“Where is he?” asked Sashenka eagerly. So Vanya’s train had been on time. Razum (probably excluded from the secret in case he warned his boss) had been at the station to meet him, and Vanya had been arrested then and there. Razum’s grotesque pantomiming was his desperate attempt to prove his loyalty and save his skin. Sashenka knew enough to realize Vanya would have been taken straight to the Internal Prison at what they called “the Center”: Lubianka.

“Not another word, Comrade Razum,” said the stick insect. “This is our affair.”

“I always had my suspicions about these barins .” Razum was still chattering. “There wasn’t much I didn’t see. Now we’re going to search the place, find out what papers that snake’s been hiding. This way, boys!”

The stick insect and his Chekists were already in the study. Carolina watched from her bedroom door. Had they come to arrest her? Sashenka wondered. Frantic longings and selfish thoughts filled her again: perhaps she was safe? Perhaps they only wanted Vanya? Let Vanya be arrested. Let her stay with the children.

Sashenka and Carolina looked at each other silently. Were they too late? Would the children be tortured in that orphanage? How would they know what to do? Vanya had sent no signal. Should Carolina leave right now with the children? Tonight? Or would that bring further torment?

“What’s happening, Mama?” asked Snowy, arms curling round her mother’s waist. Carlo sensed the turmoil in the boots and the loud voices, the casual way the Chekists were opening drawers and slamming cupboards in the study, tossing papers and photographs into a heap on the floor. His pliant face collapsed in three stages: a slight downturn of the eyes and the lips; welling tears and crumpling features; the spread of a deep red blush as he started to howl.

“Stay in your bedroom,” cried Sashenka, hiding them behind her body. “Go to Carolina.”

Carolina opened her arms but the children froze around Sashenka, their hands clutching her hips and thighs, sheltering under her like travelers during a storm.

Vanya’s mother burst out of her room in a purple nightdress, followed by her husband.

“What’s going on?” she shouted. “What’s happening?” She ran into the study and started pushing the Chekists away from Vanya’s desk. “Vanya’s a hero! There’s been some mistake! What’s he been arrested for?”

“Article Fifty-eight, I believe!” answered the stick insect. “Now, out of the way. They’re removing the safe.”

Sashenka saw the secret policemen fixing a seal onto the door of the study. Four of the boys were straining to get Vanya’s safe to the elevator. Finally the janitor brought up a metal cart and they wheeled it out.

“Good night, Comrade Zeitlin-Palitsyn,” said the uniformed stick insect to Sashenka. “Don’t tinker with the seal on the study. We’ll return for more material tomorrow.”

“Wait! Does Vanya need some clothes?”

“The spy had a suitcase, thank you very much,” sneered Razum, hands on hips, striking a pose. “I’ll be right with you, lads!” he shouted over his shoulder to the stick insect and the others who were loading piles of papers into the elevator.

“Why do you hate us?” Sashenka asked him quietly.

“He’ll sing! He’ll confess, the hyena!” Razum said to her. “You bosses live like nobility! Think you’re better than the likes of us? You’ve gotten fat and soft. Now you’re getting your comeuppance.”

“Silence, Comrade Razum, or you’ll be in the soup yourself!” piped the stick insect, holding the elevator door open. Old Razum turned abruptly but as he did so, something fell out of his pocket. Shouting drunken insults, he trotted after his fellows. The elevator door closed.