Sashenka

Two security gates let us through. Lastly a green steel gate opened and there was Stalin’s real home, the Kuntsevo dacha, a plain two-story house, recently painted khaki in case war came.

A guard in NKVD blue met us at the door and showed me inside. I left my coat on the coatrack. Stalin’s office was on the left, heaped with books and journals, but then out of the library on the right, which was filled with bookcases, came Stalin himself in a grey tunic and boots.

“Evening, bicho,” he said quietly, grinning. He always called me bicho—it means “boy” in Georgian. “Come in and have a drink and some food. Have you eaten?”

Of course I had eaten already but in those days we all worked according to Stalin’s nocturnal habits.

“Comrade Beria’s here and the others are coming.” He led the way into a big room with a huge dining-room table, heavy chairs and divans, the ceiling and walls paneled in Karelian pine, with posters by Russian artists. At one end of the table there was a buffet, a Georgian feast, with plates for us to help ourselves.

Lavrenti Beria was already standing at the table, holding a glass of wine. He greeted me in Georgian. With Stalin, you see, we were three Georgians in icy Russia!

Stalin, pouring me some wine and taking some himself, sat down at the table. I sat between the two of them.

“So,” said Stalin, lighting up a Herzegovina Flor cigarette, “what happened with the Sashenka case?”

The mention of her name always had an emotional effect on me, which I hoped was invisible.

“She seemed such a decent Soviet woman,” said Stalin. “I remember seeing her in Lenin’s office in Petrograd…” He shook his head sadly. “In our world, people can wear masks for decades.”

I looked at Beria.

“She confessed everything,” said Beria.

“The trial went smoothly,” I added.

“You knew her well, didn’t you, boy?” said Stalin to me.

I nodded.

“Did they all disarm and show remorse?” asked Stalin, dropping his cigarette into the bowl of his pipe and making puffs of smoke. “At the end?”

“Vanya Palitsyn disarmed,” said Beria, laughing hoarsely. “He took it well, shouting out, ‘Long live Comrade Stalin!’ at the last moment.”

Stalin sucked on his pipe, golden eyes half closed.

“But Mendel, what an old fool!” Beria continued. “He refused to disarm.”

“He was always such a stickler for rules,” said Stalin rather fondly.

“I did as you asked with Mendel,” said Beria.

Stalin and Beria exchanged a quick conspiratorial smile—I knew they enjoyed their intrigues. I once heard Beria talking about arranging a fatal car crash for a comrade who was too well known to arrest and execute.

“Boy, are you interested in hearing about Mendel?” Stalin asked me.

“Yes,” I said, though in truth I dreaded it.

“Tell him, Lavrenti,” ordered Stalin.

“I told Mendel, ‘Confess your crimes and Comrade Stalin will guarantee your life,’” explained Beria, “and you know what Mendel did? He shouted, ‘Never! I’m innocent and will be an honest Bolshevik until I die!’ He spat at me and then in Kobylov’s face…”

“That was a mistake,” mused Stalin.

“Kobylov went crazy and gave him a real beating, and that was that.”

“What pride! What foolish pride!” Stalin looked at me. “But you curated the case, boy?”

“Yes, Comrade Stalin. I curated as you asked.” I could not help but give Beria a heavy look. Stalin was so sensitive, he divined it immediately.

“Well?” he asked.

“Nothing special,” said Beria, and he kicked my shin hard under the table. But however dangerous Beria may have been, it was never a good idea to hide anything from Stalin.

“There was an irregularity, Comrade Stalin, in one of the executions,” I said finally, feeling unwell.

“An irregularity?” repeated Stalin coldly.

Beria gave me another kick in the leg but it was too late.

“The NKVD has professional and devoted cadres but this was a rare example of philistine infantilism,” I said, starting to sweat.

“Did you know about this, Comrade Beria?”

“I heard about it, Comrade Stalin, and am investigating.”

“I thought you’d cleansed the Organs of this sort of shit? The guilty must be punished.” He turned to us both and scrutinized us carefully. “Right. Comrades Beria and Satinov, form a commission of Comrades Shkiryatov, Malenkov, Merkulov. I want a report fast.”

Just then we heard the purr of cars driving up to the house, doors slamming. Stalin stood up and went to greet members of the Politburo, who had arrived for dinner.

Beria and I were left alone.

“You motherfucker,” said Beria, jabbing me in the side, “why the fuck did you have to mention that to him?” But then Molotov, Voroshilov and the other leaders joined us in the dining room.

When we were helping ourselves to dinner, Stalin appeared next to me, standing very close.

“That pretty girl Sashenka,” he murmured. “What terrible decisions we have to make.”

22

“Have you finished, dear?” asked Agrippina. As the Parisian perfume thickened the air, Katinka absorbed Satinov’s revelation. Maxy was right; she was becoming obsessed with these strangers—people who had nothing to do with her, yet whose stories consumed her. She had longed to find out what had happened to them, but the excised pages from Satinov’s memoir had raised even more questions. Saddest of all, she was now sure that Sashenka was dead. She would have to ring Roza and tell her both her parents had been killed by Stalin’s thugs. Sashenka’s husband had been shot crying “Long live Comrade Stalin” and her uncle Mendel had not died of a heart attack but been bludgeoned to death.

But how had Sashenka died? What had been the “irregularity?” Had she been gang-raped by the guards, tortured to death, starved? Only one person could tell her: she had to rush to Satinov. However angry he had been with her last night, she had to see him before he died.

“Thank you,” she managed to say to Agrippina.

“Please give my regards to the comrade marshal and his daughter and thank them for remembering me with this gift.”

“Yes, of course.” Katinka was already on her way to the elevator.

Fighting back tears, she waited a few minutes but it didn’t come, and suddenly she realized she was not alone. The archive rat who had ridden up with her to the fourth floor was standing beside her, leaning on his cart of files and humming. Finally he cleared his throat.

“This elevator’s broken. You must use our elevator.”

Katinka noticed that he said “must”—but she was so upset she did not care. He hummed as they walked round the rectangular building, his yellow shoes squeaking, until they reached a dirtier, rustier elevator with sawdust on its floor. It soon grunted and heaved on its way.

What would she tell Roza? A wave of despair overcame her. Satinov wouldn’t see her again; Mariko would throw her out. And now she would never find Carlo.

At last the elevator jerked to a halt but they weren’t in the foyer; they were underground somewhere. The archive rat held open the door.

“Please,” he said.

“But this is the wrong floor,” she objected.

The archive rat looked up and down an underground passageway.