“You’ve got to thank the Party too and Comrade Stalin!” said Sashenka. But the children were already trying to balance on the bikes.
“Thank you, Comrade St…” Snowy lost interest and chased another butterfly while Carlo tried to cycle and fell off, which led to tears, cuddles and consoling ice cream indoors.
By midafternoon it was too hot to be outside and an oriole was singing. The silver pine forest that surrounded them buzzed with spring, voices murmured nearby, glasses tinkled, horses neighed.
Sashenka swung in the hammock, watching as Vanya, still in his boots and breeches but now bare chested, broad shouldered and muscular, worked with his tools to add training wheels to Carlo’s bike, cannibalizing parts from an old stroller. Sashenka marveled at his ingenuity—but of course he was a former lathe turner, a real worker since his childhood, and she remembered meeting him that first time at the safe house in Leningrad, when she was sixteen and he a little older. There had been no sentimental courtship or soppy proposal, Sashenka thought proudly, no bourgeois philistinism or rotten liberalism; they were too busy making a revolution. They had just agreed to get married, and had not even registered at the marriage office until the government had moved to Moscow. Then there’d been the civil war. She’d worked for the Party and taken evening classes at the Industrial College. She and Vanya had set off together into the countryside to squeeze the grain out of the obstinate peasants and collectivize their smallholdings. They shared digs at the House of the Soviets with other couples and owned nothing. I can’t believe, she thought now, that I’m almost forty already. The Smolny Institute for Noble Imbeciles seemed as distant as the Middle Ages.
Over the fence, the neighbor changed his gramophone record and started to sing along to one of Dunaevsky’s catchy songs from his jazz movie,
“Dunaevsky might come by for some
“Who?” he said, his forehead crumpled as he tightened the bolts attaching a wheel to the bicycle.
“The writer whose stories on the Spanish Civil War I read recently,” she replied.
Vanya shrugged his bunched shoulders. Sashenka wished he was more interested in singers, writers and film stars. She was—and why shouldn’t she be? Vanya had once called them “a rackety bunch of unreliable elements— and your uncle Gideon is the worst.” She knew that Vanya preferred Party and military people but they could be so rigid and dry, and they were worse since the Terror. Besides, she was an editor, and her magazine was read by the wives of all the “responsible workers”—as the leaders were called. It was her job to know glamorous stars.
“Well, Satinov’s coming and so is Uncle Mendel if you want to talk politics,” she answered.
“How many have you asked?” he said, trying out the balance of the bike.
“I don’t know,” she answered dreamily. “It’s a big house…”
The dacha was a recent acquisition—and sometimes, in spite of herself, the sounds and smells reminded Sashenka of Zemblishino, the Zeitlin family estate where Mendel had converted her to Marxism.
Sashenka and Vanya had been assigned the dacha a year previously, in the summer of 1938, when they had also been granted the apartment on Granovsky and their driver. The cleansing of the Party had been a brutal and bloody process. Many had failed the test and fallen by the wayside, sentenced to death, the Highest Measure of Punishment in the official terminology. Some of Sashenka’s oldest friends and acquaintances had turned out to be traitors, spies and Trotskyites. She had never realized so many of them wore masks, pretending to be good Communists while actually being Fascists, saboteurs and traitors. With so many comrades vanishing into the “meat grinder,” as it was known, Sashenka had, like all her friends, culled their photos from the family photograph albums, scratching out their faces. Even she and Vanya had been worried, although they were completely committed to the rapture of the Revolution. Their marriage was a Communist marriage too. Sashenka and Vanya shared faith in the Party; for them, the faith was everything. They shared so much even if, she suddenly thought, the differences in their interests had become more marked as they grew older.
But the Terror was over now; they could breathe easy again. The country was ready and united for the coming war against the Hitlerite Fascists.
Vanya stood up and called Snowy, who came scampering around the corner with little Carlo trying to keep up.
“The bikes are ready.” He lifted her onto the seat. “Now take it slowly, Comrade Cushion, easy now, not too fast, feet on the pedals, now start to pedal…”
“Me too,” piped Carlo.
“Hang on, Carlo, oh Carlo…Don’t worry, bear cub, I’ve got you!”
“I’m a bunny, Papochka!” shouted the little boy furiously. His parents laughed. “Don’t laugh, silly Mummy!”
Sashenka smiled, her heart full of love for her small son. It didn’t matter if he was rude to her providing he was not rude to his father, who had a furious temper.
“Careful, Bunny,” she called. But it was too late. Desperate to catch up with his sister, he went too fast, swerved to avoid a chicken and fell off his bicycle.
“I want my mummy!” he sobbed.
Sashenka scooped him up again, at which he instantly stopped crying and demanded to go back on the bike.
“Look at me, look at me, Papochka and Mamochka!” He was off again.
“When aren’t we looking at you?” retorted Sashenka, tenderly. Turning round she could see that Snowy had mastered the bicycle. Triumphant, the little girl jumped off and danced away, waving her cushion.
“Right, it’s too hot and I’m hungry,” announced Vanya. “Brightness burns. I want you all out of the sun right now.”
2
An hour later, Sashenka, sitting cross-legged on the floor, was playing with the children in the nursery next to the Red Corner, with its posters of Lenin and Stalin, and the family radio mounted in a varnished oak casing. She could hear Razum and Vanya in the kitchen arguing about the soccer match between Dynamo Moscow and Spartak. Dynamo Moscow had played appallingly. Spartak had fouled the Moscow striker, who had been borne off the field, but the referee had not sent off the Spartak player.
“Perhaps he’s a saboteur!” Razum joked.
“Or maybe he needs new spectacles!”
No one would have laughed about a saboteur six months earlier, Sashenka reflected, even a soccer saboteur. People had been arrested and shot for lesser things. She recalled how the director of the Moscow Zoo had been detained for poisoning a Soviet giraffe, and how a schoolboy at School 118 near their Moscow apartment had been arrested for throwing a dart that accidentally hit a poster of Stalin. Whenever one of their friends was arrested, Vanya would close the kitchen door (so the children could not hear) and whisper the name. If it was someone famous like Bukharin, he would just shrug: “Enemies are everywhere.” If it was a good friend with whom they had holidayed in Sochi, for example, she would be mystified and concerned. “The Organs must know something but…”
“There’s always a reason,” he’d say. “It means it’s necessary.”
“The masks that people wear! The evil of our enemies beggars belief. Snowy was going to play with their children—”
“Cancel Snowy’s visit,” Vanya would say sharply, “and don’t call Elena! Careful!” He would kiss her forehead and no more would be said.
“You can’t make a revolution with silk gloves,” said Comrade Stalin, and Sashenka had repeated it to herself every day. But now Comrade Stalin had told the Eighteenth Congress that the Enemies of the People had been destroyed. Yezhov, the crazy secret-police boss, had been fired and arrested for his excesses, while the new Narkom of the NKVD, Lavrenti Beria, had brought back justice and moderation.
The men, their voices increasingly sticky from the succession of beers and the heat, were guffawing about a goal Vanya had scored in their amateur soccer team. Sashenka could not imagine why anyone would want to
