Antonio Molina - Sepharad

In the summer of 1932, Heinz Neumann and his wife had been Stalin’s personal guests at a resort on the Black Sea. The night of April 27, 1937, when the pounding comes at their door, Greta Neumann is lying wide awake in the darkness, but her husband doesn’t wake up, not even when she turns on the light and the uniformed men enter. The three of them stand around the bed, and one of them, maybe the youngest, the one with the rimless glasses, yells his name, but Neumann turns beneath the blankets and faces the wall, as if refusing with all the strength of his soul to wake. When finally he opens his eyes, an almost childish horror floods his features, and then his face turns slack and gray. While the men search the room and examine each of his books, husband and wife sit facing each other, and both feel their knees trembling. A piece of paper falls to the floor from one of the books, and the guard who picks it up identifies it as a letter from Stalin sent to Neumann in 1926. “Worse and worse,” murmurs the guard, folding it back again. The husband and wife’s knees touch, each with the identical tremble, like an ague that can’t be stopped. Outside the room, in the hotel corridors, as outside their windows, they begin to hear the faint sounds of people waking up, of the city coming to life before the first light of day. The dawn came slowly behind the window curtains.

In 1935, Professor Klemperer was let go from the university, but because of his status as a war veteran he continued to receive a small pension. It would be a few years before he would be forbidden to drive a car, own a radio or telephone, go to the movies, have a pet. Professor Klemperer and his wife, always in such delicate health, given to neuralgia and melancholy, liked cats and films, especially musicals, very much.

They have been threatened, they know that at any moment they can be put under arrest or killed, but in the street the sunlight is the same as it always has been, cars drive by, stores are open, neighbors greet one another, mothers hold their children’s hands on the way to school and before they leave them at the fence in front of the entrance squat down to turn up the lapels of their overcoats or to wrap them more tightly in their mufflers and caps. One November day in 1936, Professor Klemperer, who was taking advantage of the forced leisure of his retirement to write a scholarly book on eighteenth-century French literature, arrived at the university library, but the librarian who had helped him every day for many years told him, with distress, that she was no longer authorized to lend the professor books, and that he shouldn’t come back anymore. You have been marked, sentenced. In the reading room you cannot enter now, people are bent in thought over opened volumes, under the soft light of the low, green-shaded lamps. You go outside, knowing that your days are numbered, that you should seize what time you have left and flee, at least make the attempt, but the man at the kiosk sells you your newspaper just as on any other morning, the bus makes its usual punctual stops every few minutes, and then it seems to you that the curse is in you, something that makes you different from the others, more vulnerable, worse, unworthy of the normal life they’re enjoying, though you stubbornly believe that maybe it’s due to some error, some misunderstanding that will be cleared up in time. In May 1940, Professor Klemperer is denounced by a neighbor for not having properly closed his windows during a blackout; he is arrested and locked in a cell, but released after one week.

Waiting for an inevitable disaster is worse than the disaster itself. On September 1, 1936, Eugenia Ginzburg, a professor at the University of Kazan, a Communist leader, editor of a Party journal, and wife of a member of the Central Committee, receives the notice that she is forbidden to give classes. She is a young and enthusiastic mother of two small children, a fervent adherent of each and every one of the Party’s directives, convinced that the country is swarming with saboteurs and spies in the service of imperialism, traitors whom it is right to unmask and punish with the greatest firmness. Every day in meetings of cells and committees, in the newspapers, on the radio, new arrests are announced, and Eugenia Ginzburg is surprised by some of them but remains convinced of their necessity and justice.

One day she learns that she herself is under suspicion: nothing very serious, it seems at first, but it is irritating, and even unpleasant, a mistake that must eventually be resolved since it is unthinkable that the Party would accuse an innocent, and she, Eugenia Ginzburg, does not find in herself the least shadow of guilt, not the slightest uncertainty or weakness in her blind revolutionary faith. You believe you know who you are, but suddenly you’ve become something others want to see in you, then you’ve become a stranger to yourself, and your own shadow is the spy following your footsteps, and in your eyes you see the look of your accusers, those who cross the street to avoid saying hello or lower their head when they pass. But life is slow to change, and at first a person refuses to notice the alarm signals, to question the order and solidity of the world that has begun to break apart, the everyday reality in which large holes, pits of darkness even at midday, begin to open, where at any moment you may hear loud pounding at the door of the dining room where your children have lunch or do their homework, and the ring of the telephone cuts the air like an icy steel blade, like a fatal shot.

Eugenia Ginzburg is summoned at odd hours to meetings that turn out to be interrogations; it is suggested to her that she will be punished, because at one time she was connected with the university, or worked in the Party with someone who was a traitor, or didn’t denounce someone with the proper revolutionary zeal. But the meeting, the interrogation, ends, and she is allowed to go home, and if there are people who have begun to pretend they don’t see her or change course if she is walking toward them, others tell her to be calm, give her advice, say that nothing will happen, she’ll see, everything will work out in the end. Only one woman warns her of the danger: her husband’s mother, who is an old and maybe illiterate woman from a small village, shakes her head with resignation and remembers that all this happened before, in the times of the czars. Eugenia, they’re setting a trap for you, and you must run away while you can, before they have your head. But why would I, a Communist, hide from my Party? I must show the Party that I’m innocent. They speak in low voices, trying not to let the children hear, afraid that the telephone, even though the receiver’s down, will allow someone to listen. On February 7, Eugenia Ginzburg is called to yet another meeting, which is less disagreeable, and at the end of it the comrade who has been interrogating her gets to his feet with a smile; she thinks he will shake her hand, maybe tell her that the misunderstandings and suspicions are clearing up, but the man asks her rather casually, as if remembering a minor bureaucratic detail he’d almost overlooked, to leave her Party card with him. At first she doesn’t understand, or can’t believe what she’s heard: she looks at this comrade and the smile disappears from his serene face, then she opens her handbag and looks for the card she always carries with her, and when she hands it to him, he takes it without a glance toward her and puts it in one of his desk drawers.

For eight days she waits. She stays home, in her room, not answering the telephone, barely noticing what is going on around her, the presence of her children, who move quietly, as if in a house where someone is ill, the company of her husband, who comes and goes like a shadow and raps quietly at the door and says in a low voice, “Open up, it’s me.” Now they begin to doubt whether innocence is enough to save her, they burn papers and books, old letters, any manuscript or printed page that might draw attention during a search. At night they lie awake, silent and rigid in the darkness, and shiver every time they hear a car coming down the silent street or see headlights through the window, flashing diagonally across the walls of the room. Their fear lasts from the moment they hear the car in the distance until it fades and is lost at the end of the street. In Kazan, as in Moscow, the only cars moving about at such hours are the black vans of the KGB. Russia is very large, Eugenia, take a train and go hide in our village. Our little summer house is empty and the windows are sealed, and it has a garden with apple trees.