What could Galina do about her daughter? She racked her brain and at last came up with an idea.
“How would you like to go to the special school for artists in Leningrad?” Galina suggested. “It’s a boarding school; children with a talent for drawing come from all over the Soviet Union to study there. And once you complete your final project, you can go straight to the Higher Art and Technical Institute.”
To her amazement, Tata liked the idea. Now, whenever Galina thought about the future, her heart began to beat faster. If she could get Tata settled in some line of work, nothing would stand in the way of her own personal happiness.
I know I’m a bad mother, she thought without any particular regret. But what else can I do for Tata?
Klim was due a short period of leave from work, and Galina was already dreaming of how they would rent a dacha outside Moscow and live there together, far away from work, politics, and wayward children.
She was hoping that by that time, Klim might recover slightly from the loss of his wife. Things were starting to look up for him. Weinstein had indicated that he was prepared to bury the hatchet, Elkin had given Klim his car without demanding payment upfront, and the finance department in London had already agreed to fund this purchase later in the summer.
Things were starting to happen in the Soviet Union that could make front-page news in the world’s newspapers, and the trial of the Shakhty saboteurs might bring Klim fame and money. The case would involve forty-two public prosecutors, fifteen defense lawyers, and fifty defendants, and the trial was to take place in the legendary Pillar Hall of the House of the Unions, formerly the Assembly of the Nobility, which was the setting for the balls in War and Peace.
Long before the proceedings were due to start, the Soviet press had begun to prepare the public for the trial. There was talk in the papers about the catastrophic situation in the coal industry and of how “bourgeois experts” had played a role in its collapse. The government had decided to keep even illiterate Soviet citizens informed about the trial by broadcasting radio reports through loudspeakers put up on the streets of Moscow.
The Bolsheviks were preparing the trial of the century, and Klim ought to have been pleased to have such an opportunity fall into his hands, but he seemed discontented.
Galina tried probing him gently. “What’s the matter?”
In answer, Klim handed her a paper dated April 14, 1928, with a transcript of a speech by Stalin.
The facts tell us that the Shakhty affair is an economic counter-revolution plotted by bourgeois experts. Moreover, the facts state that these experts, who have formed a secret cell, have been receiving money for sabotage from their former masters, who are now in emigration, and from counter-revolutionary anti-Soviet organizations in the West.
“They’ve already made up their minds before the trial,” said Klim. “Nobody has any doubt that the defendants are guilty.”
“You mean to say you don’t think they’re guilty?” Galina stared at him, amazed.
“I’d just like to know…”
But Klim did not finish what he had begun to say. No matter what Galina did, Klim still saw her as a potential informer, and when he was with her, he was careful what he said. Galina suspected that this was why he seemed unable to love her.
But if she resigned her position at the OGPU, Klim would have had to find a new assistant. Galina was stuck in a vicious circle. She could not leave the OGPU until Klim married her, but he would never marry her because of the nature of her work.
To get Tata a place in the art school, Galina needed a recommendation from her employers. She set off to OGPU headquarters straight away, but nobody could tell her who was responsible for what.
The Lubyanka was in a state of confusion. An order had come from the Kremlin bosses stating that a purge was imminent and employees showing insufficient zeal in the fight against counter-revolution were to be flushed out.
Something similar was taking place across all the organizations in the country. Every sector of the economy was failing, and directors, rather than waiting for a Shakhty Trail of their own, were taking things into their own hands. If they too were not achieving, it must mean there was sabotage in the workplace.
The purge at the OGPU had not yet been scheduled, but Galina’s friends from the administrative department were making haste to throw out all the fashion journals they had confiscated from Nepmen and to hide anything that might reveal a hankering for a bourgeois lifestyle. No longer could they collect pictures of foreign movie stars, bring knitting to work, or discuss how to do a permanent wave at home. Now, everyone was coming into work looking brisk and business-like and talking of nothing but the enemies of the state and support for the Party line.
Eteri Bagratovna, the secretary, whispered to Galina that Drachenblut had been receiving piles of anonymous denunciations every day. Alarmed at the prospect of dismissal, OGPU workers were starting to rat on any colleagues who might potentially cause problems for them during the purge. The personal files on staff members were growing fatter by the day. Everybody had some offence to their name. One had stolen rulers from work, another had arranged an unnecessary business trip for himself, and yet another had been heard to say something in favor of the opposition.
Galina went to see Alov in his office. She found him sitting on a windowsill and painting a lightbulb with nail varnish, the room full of the suffocating smell of solvent.
Alov looked at Galina with irritation. “What are you staring at? I’m marking the lightbulbs for our corridor. Somebody keeps unscrewing them and replacing them with burned-out ones. The supply manager is threatening to report us.”
Galina squinted at the cluster of lightbulbs on the table, bearing the bloodred inscription, “Stolen from the OGPU.”
“Where did you get the nail varnish?”
“Diana Mikhailovna gave it to me. ‘Their Royal Highnesses’ called a meeting and passed a resolution: they have decided not to paint their nails from now on. So, how about you? Any news?”
Galina told Alov that the building that had once housed the Moscow Savannah was now occupied by the League of Time. Its members were underfed, overworked students dedicated to the “scientific organization of labor,” including their own. Everywhere they went, they carried little notebooks in which they wrote down exactly what they did.
“Has Rogov mentioned Kupina again?” Alov interrupted.
Galina shook her head. “No, not once.”
“That’s a shame. You need to uncover a plot, Pidge, or you’ll have nothing to show for yourself when they start the purge. Keep a closer eye on those foreigners of yours, all right?”
Galina felt alarmed. Was Alov going to force her to make up some story about Klim? That was all she needed.
Alov studied her closely. “Why the long face? Has Mr. Rogov hurt your feelings?”
“No, of course not!” Galina quickly changed the subject. “I wanted to speak to you about Tata. She wants to try to get into the art school in Leningrad, but since it’s a boarding school, she needs a document from our employment committee. Can you help?”
Galina showed Alov one of Tata’s drawings.
“Wow!” His eyes became round in surprise. “I wonder which side of the family she got that from? Of course, I’ll have a word with the employment committee. But won’t the two of you be lonely without each other?”
“Of course we will,” Galina said, “but after all, she’s my child. I’d do anything for her.”