Alov put a hand on her shoulder, and Galina flinched. Surely he wasn’t about to try anything now? Oh, please, anything but that!
“I hope you won’t take it too hard…” Alov hesitated for a moment and cleared his throat awkwardly. “But you and I can no longer be on intimate terms. Don’t get me wrong. I’m fond of you, but I’m far too busy these days. And with this purge, anything could be used against us. It would be stupid to be dismissed from our job on account of low moral standards, wouldn’t it?”
Galina almost wept from relief. “Don’t worry,” she told Alov in a shaking voice. “I understand perfectly.”
Seeing tears in Galina’s eyes, he was touched. “You and I are building a new life, Pidge. We can’t carry on the way we used to.”
Galina came out of the office feeling elated. Thank goodness, he was finally going to leave her alone! And if everything worked out with the plan for Tata, it would be wonderful.
The inner courtyard was flooded with spring sunlight, and the first blooms of coltsfoot were dotted about below the fence like yellow buttons.
“Hello!” Ibrahim waved to her as she crossed the yard.
This time, not one, but three Black Marias stood next to the OGPU holding cells. The door of one of them was heavily smeared with blood.
“Beautiful weather we’re having!” Ibrahim shouted out happily. “We’ll be down at the river soon, swimming and sunbathing!”
He screwed a canvas hose to a faucet in the yard and began to wash down the car.
Galina walked hurriedly past. There was no point thinking about Black Marias or about who had been taken away in them the night before. Anyway, more likely than not it had been profiteers anyway. None of that had anything to do with her or with Klim.
I think Weinstein must have been some sort of priest in a former life, and a high priest at that. He has taken my conversion to the communist faith very seriously, and the two of us have been talking at length on “theological” subjects.
I don’t dare try to dodge these conversations. It’s very important for me to be seen as a “friendly journalist” again because they will be given access to special materials during the Shahkty Trial.
Weinstein claims that he was a romantic in his youth and regarded both censorship and lies in the press as an unmitigated evil. But his views have changed with time.
“You have to get your priorities right,” he informed me with a condescending chuckle. “I ask you, what’s more important: achieving the result you want or fighting for one’s principles for the sake of it? The Soviet Union has to drag a hundred and fifty million people out of the middle ages and into the modern era. The Russian people are uneducated, and all your “basic human rights” mean nothing to them. We need to speak to Russians in a language the people understand.”
“And what language might that be?” I asked.
“Proverbs, sayings, spells, and curses. We need to unite people behind a common cause and get them to work for nothing. Not because we’re tightfisted but because the state has no money, and it won’t have any until we’ve built up our own industry.”
As Weinstein sees it, the purges that are taking place all over the country are a ritual cleansing before the great feat of industrialization. It’s like the way warriors prepared for battle in the old days: first, they would fast, pray, and repent, and then they would charge at the enemy with their spears, confident that God was on their side. And often, they would be victorious. Spiritual strength is a great weapon.
“What if we were to get rid of all censorship and the papers were to print the truth?” Weinstein asked me with a crafty smile into his beard. “What do you think would happen then?”
I had to admit that that would result in widespread discontent.
“And how will your truth help us to solve the problem of industrialization?” Weinstein continued. “Do you really want to plunge the country into bloodshed and chaos again? No, my dear Mr. Rogov, we must choose another path.”
However, this “other path” is hardly a shining example of humanity. The Soviet papers bristle with demands to “destroy the parasites,” “crush the vermin,” “tear the stings from their tails,” and so on. The enemies (or rather those the Bolsheviks have declared enemies) are stripped of all human features. There is no need to feel sorry for these “subhumans” as they are “spawn,” “scum,” and “dross” that has no place in the Soviet Union. Actually, nobody feels sorry for them.
Owen often sends me to cover Party meetings that are effectively purges. At these meetings, a strange mass phenomenon can be observed: people repenting of crimes they could not possibly have committed.
Weinstein is probably right. Everyday magic and superstition is at work here. Many people believe that moral “purity” enables you to escape misfortune: by repenting and being cleansed of evil, you will be saved. It doesn’t matter what the truth is—it’s all about a relationship with mysterious higher powers, which can be appeased only with ritual and magic words.
I believe all of this is happening because people are utterly lost. They have no reliable information. Every decision about the future of the country is being taken in secret, way up in the corridors of power, and all you can do is pray that divine judgment will not suddenly descend like a bolt of lightning to strike you or your loved ones.
In some ways, I agree with Weinstein. The truth can be a force for destruction, but still, you can’t stop people from wanting to know what’s going on. If they have no way of reaching the truth, they begin to make up fairytales, and that won’t solve anything.
I tried to explain to Weinstein that the latter is more dangerous, but he merely shook his head reproachfully.
“Imagine,” he said, “we’re traveling in a high-speed train, trying to catch up with the advanced capitalist nations. We don’t have time to stop; our task is to get the state machine running smoothly, helping the engine to convert fuel and turn the wheels without any hitches.”
“When you say fuel, I take it you mean people?” I asked.
But Weinstein wasn’t bothered by such concerns. “You foreign journalists can either help us take this great leap into the future or try to throw a spanner in the works. Of course, your spanners won’t stop us anyway. But think about it: how does it serve your interests to have our nation simply sitting and vegetating on the margins of Europe? Do you really bear us such ill will?”
“No, we don’t,” I answered, and Weinstein beamed.
“That’s wonderful! Then there’s no need to keep drawing attention to our shortcomings. All we ask of the West is that you help your readers like us. If you sow derision and hatred, it will lead to another war. Surely you don’t want that?”
If I ever meet Comrade Stalin, I will definitely hint that Weinstein should be appointed patriarch of the new Bolshevik Church of the Sacred Spirit of the Proletariat. He would make a very good priest.
Everybody is waiting for the beginning of the Shakhty Trial. Much remains unclear. Why is such an enormous fuss being made of this affair, and why are preparations being made for it on the scale of those made for the Olympic Games in Amsterdam? What’s the meaning of it all? Is it a scare tactic or criminal justice in action?
I receive a stream of instructions and orders from London. My professional future hangs in the balance, and I spend all my time running about Moscow trying to find answers to my editors’ questions.
Everything I do, I do for Kitty’s sake, but because I am so busy, I give her hardly any attention. She is desperately bored and lonely without me, particularly since I have forbidden her to play with Tata. But there is nobody to help me. Galina is traveling to and fro all the time, and whenever she puts in an appearance at our house, she is dropping from exhaustion.