Gideon virtually spat out his tea: had these ideeeots terrified him in order to bring him here just for a chat on movies? No, of course they had not. Ever since the twenties, the Cheka had used sophisticated faux intellectuals to manage the real ones. This freckly youth was merely the latest in a long line.
“Lenin in 1918 is a wonderful film, and Stalin is beautifully portrayed in contrast to the murderous terrorist Bukharin,” he replied.
“You know Romm of course. And how about Eisenstein’s Alexander Nevsky?”
“Eisenstein is a sublime artist and a friend. The movie shows us how Bolshevism is utterly compatible with the Russian nation and its stand against our national enemies.”
“Interesting,” said the interrogator sincerely, stroking his ginger mustache. “I must tell you I’m a writer myself. You may have read my collection of detective stories published under the name M. Sluzhba? One of them will soon be performed as a play at the Art Theater.”
“Ah yes,” said Gideon, who vaguely remembered a review of a volume of clichéd detective yarns by a certain Sluzhba in some thick journal. “I thought those tales had the tang of reality about them.”
Mogilchuk smiled toothily. “You flatter me! Thank you, Gideon Moiseievich, from you that’s a compliment. I would welcome any comments.” He passed his hand over the papers before him but did not change his tone. “Now let me start by showing you these.” He pushed a bound wad of papers toward Gideon.
“What are these?” Gideon’s confidence sank again.
“Just some of the confessions of your intimate friends in the last couple of years.”
Gideon surveyed the typed-up pages on special headed NKVD letterhead, each one signed in the corner.
“You’re a big name and you appear frequently in these confessions,” explained the youngster keenly, almost admiringly. “They all mention you. Look here in these Protocols of Interrogation, and see there!”
Could the wild-eyed hag in this photograph really be that lissom creature of pleasure Larissa, whose throaty laughter and delicious breasts he remembered from that summer at the Mukhalachka Sanatorium in the Crimea just four years ago? Had she really denounced him for planning to kill Comrade Stalin? But then he remembered that he had himself denounced Larissa at meetings of the Writers’ Union as a traitor, snake and spy who should be shot along with Zinoviev, Kamenev and Bukharin. And no one had had to torture him to make him do it.
Where were these friends of his? Were they all dead?
Gideon’s breath was shallow with fear; red specks rose before his eyes.
Outside that comfortable sunny office with this unctuous Soviet New Man with his pomaded hair were scores of corridors and offices where baby tyrants grew into big tyrants, where ambitious bullies became systematic torturers. And somewhere in this nest of misery was the Interior Prison with its cellars where his friends had died, where he might die yet. Gideon was amazed by the evil in the world.
“This is all totally false,” said Gideon. “I deny this nonsense.”
The quiff smiled affably. “We’re not here to discuss that now. We just want a chat. About your relative Mendel Barmakid.”
“Mendel? What about Mendel? He’s an important man.”
“You know him well?”
“He is the brother of my brother’s late wife. I’ve known him since they married.”
“And you admire Comrade Mendel?”
“We’re not friends. We’ve never been friends. In my view, he’s an ideeeot!” Gideon felt a guilty relief. He had always disliked Mendel, who had banned two of his plays at the Little Theater—but no, he wished this fate on no man. On the other hand, Gideon was in his fifties and never hungrier to embrace life, to gobble it up. Who loves life as much as me, he wondered, who deserves to live more? He thanked God they wanted Mendel, not him!
“Where did you last see Comrade Mendel?”
“At the Palitsyns’ house on May Day night.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No.”
“Who was he talking to?”
“I don’t remember. I don’t pay attention to him. He doesn’t approve of me. Never did.”
Gideon noted that the interrogator still called Mendel “comrade,” which meant that this was merely a fishing expedition. These torturers always tried to rope in other big names to add to their invented conspiracies. That was why all his old friends had denounced Gideon himself: the NKVD was just letting him know that he was living on ice. OK, he surrendered. They owned him and that was fine!
“Comrade Mendel appears in many of the confessions we have here too. Does Comrade Mendel reminisce about his early revolutionary career in the underground? His role in 1905? In exile? In Baku? In Petersburg? The early days of 1917? Does he boast of his exploits?”
“All the time. Ad nauseam.” Gideon, hands resting on his fat prosperous belly, laughed so heartily and unexpectedly that the young investigator laughed too, in a high and reedy squeak. “I know all his stories by heart. He doesn’t so much boast as drone on interminably.”
“Do you have enough tea, Citizen Zeitlin? Want some cakes? Fruit? We so value these friendly chats. So, tell me the stories.”
The youngster opened his hands. Gideon felt braver.
“I’m happy to tell old stories but if you want an informant, I’m not right for such work…”
“I quite understand,” said Mogilchuk mildly, collecting the files. A photograph half fell out of them. Gideon’s chest constricted sharply. It was Mouche, his beloved daughter, walking with Rovinsky, the film director, who’d vanished in 1937. So Mouche was the reason they asked him about movies. Mogilchuk quickly gathered up the photograph again and it disappeared into his papki.
“That was Mouche,” cried Gideon.
“With her lover, Rovinsky,” said Mogilchuk. “Do you know where Rovinsky is now?”
Gideon shook his head. He had not known about Mouche’s love affair—but she was so like him. He must protect his darling daughter.
Mogilchuk just opened his hands as if sand were running through them.
“You want all Mendel’s stories?” said Gideon. “That might take all night!”
“Our State can place eternity at your disposal if you wish. Are you dreaming of Masha, that little honey of yours? She’s much too young for you and so demanding! She’ll give you a heart attack. No—much safer for you to think about your daughter as you tell us those Mendel stories.”
20
Two days had passed and it was dusk on the Patriarchy Ponds. In the sweltering half light, couples walked like pink shadows around the cool ponds, holding hands under the trees. Their feet crunched on the gravel, their laughter tinkled and someone was playing the accordion. Two old men stared at a chessboard, neither moving.
Sashenka, in her white hat and hip-hugging white beaded dress, bought two ice creams and handed one to Benya Golden. They walked slightly apart but an observer would have known they were lovers, for they kept a constant symmetry between their bodies as if linked by invisible threads.
“Are you busy?” she asked him.
“No, I’ve virtually nothing to do and no money to do it with. But”—here he whispered—“I am writing brilliantly all day on your delicious paper! Can I have some more? I’m so happy to set eyes on you. I just long to kiss you again, to savor you.”
She sighed, half closing her eyes.
“Shall I go on?”
“I can’t believe I want to hear your talk—but I do.”
“I want to tell you something crazy. I want to run away with you to the Black Sea. I want to walk with you along the seafront at Batum. On the boardwalk there’s a barrel organ that plays all our favorite love songs and I could sing along, and then when the tropical sun goes down we could sit at Mustapha’s café and kiss. No one would stop us, but at midnight some old Tatars I know would take us in their boat to Turkey—”