But Babloyan was clearly fond of consorting with the Young Communists. He laughed together with the young men and jokingly put his arm around the girls’ waists.
“Shh—quiet now!” he ordered when they came up to a terrace where old men and women in smart bathrobes were lying about, dozing in comfortable deckchairs.
“This place is like a living museum,” breathed Babloyan in awe. “These people sacrificed everything so that you, young people, could witness the dawn of socialism.”
The Young Communists tiptoed onto the terrace and, blushing awkwardly, began to thank the old men and women and shake their wrinkled hands, which still bore the scars of shackles.
Babloyan gave them a blow-by-blow account of the activities of the political convicts—which of them had attempted to assassinate generals and which had planted bombs in the official residences of city governors.
The Young Communists had grown up under Soviet rule, and as far as they were concerned, all this had taken place long ago in ancient times. They could hardly believe that the heroes of these historical events were still alive.
They were particularly amazed to be introduced to an eighty-year-old man called Frolenko. He had been one of the ringleaders in the assassination of Alexander II.
“Why did you try to kill the Tsar?” asked Raia, a tiny, dark-eyed girl with a snub nose covered in large freckles. “The country wasn’t ready for revolution at that time.”
Frolenko sucked in his false teeth. “We didn’t have a choice back then,” he said. “We had to rouse the Russian people from their hundred-year sleep. We wanted to give a signal that revolutionary forces were alive and well and that all those who oppressed the working people would pay for it.”
The Young Communists all applauded.
Babloyan pointed to an old lady with a cane who was standing in the doorway. “And this is the famous Vera Figner. Do you know what her comrades used to say about her? ‘There are some natures that will never yield. They can be broken but never bent to the ground.’”
The old lady fixed him with a malign stare. “You’d do better to hold your tongue. We wanted to achieve freedom of speech and freedom of conscience, but your lot have destroyed everything. Russia needs another revolution!”
A nurse came running up to her. “Comrade Figner, it’s time for your treatment!” She took the old lady gently by the elbow and led her away.
“Her age is beginning to tell, I’m afraid,” Babloyan sighed. “Sometimes, Comrade Figner even forgets that the revolution has happened already.”
Next, Babloyan handed the young people over to the director of the sanatorium who took them to see the old hothouses and the poultry yard.
Klim approached Babloyan. “Seibert sent me,” he said. “He asked me to give you this letter.”
Babloyan’s expression changed. “Come with me,” he said quietly and gestured for Klim to follow him.
They sat down on a bench surrounded by flowering rose bushes. Babloyan read the letter from Seibert and then took a box of matches out of his pocket and burned the paper immediately.
“It’s a shame they’ve sent Seibert out of the country,” Babloyan said. “He was a useful man to know.”
“So, what about these Volga Germans?” asked Klim. “They’re being told that in order to get passports, they need to bring in permission documents that they can’t get ahold of. They would have to go back to Saratov, and they have no money.”
Babloyan shrugged. “It’s not in our interests to let them out. If the whole village goes over to Germany, the story is bound to leak out to the press, and then we’ll see the usual malicious reports about the Soviet Union.”
“But you can do something about it,” urged Klim.
Babloyan looked Klim up and down quizzically. “Fifty rubles a head,” he mouthed, barely audible. “If you care so much about the Germans, you can raise the money needed to pay the ‘state duty.’ But only in foreign currency, please.”
Klim smiled sardonically. Babloyan had full board and lodging, and all his needs were supplied. Why did he want foreign currency? There could be only one answer: he, like many of the Kremlin elite, considered emigration and looked for a way of amassing foreign currency just in case things began to fall apart.
Now and then, the papers would carry an article on the traitors who went abroad on work assignments and refused to return to the USSR. Among them were Stalin’s personal secretary and prominent OGPU agents. People were running away like rats from a sinking ship.
All the Party members knew that, at any moment, they could be brought to account not only for their own crimes but also for friendships with people who had fallen out of favor. And there was no knowing who would be on the blacklist from one day to the next.
“Could you please help me to arrange an interview with Stalin?” asked Klim. “I’m sure that in return for copy like that, United Press would help us solve the problem of the Volga Germans.”
“The Germans aren’t my problem; they’re yours,” said Babloyan. “I wish you all the best.”
In the hierarchy of Bolshevik values, access to Comrade Stalin was worth a lot more than a bunch of Germans. In any case, Babloyan was not willing to enter into any bargain on the subject.
26. THE VOLGA GERMANS
I went on a visit to the church of St. Michael, the oldest Lutheran Church in Russia, founded in the sixteenth century. There have been no services in the church for several months as the Central Aerodynamic Institute is right next door, and the Moscow Soviet has ordered the closure of the church on the grounds that parishioners were “preventing the organization of appropriate security.”
In fact, churches, like all other autonomous organizations, are being destroyed as the government wants to get rid of all independent sources of income or social support. The Party alone can now provide material wealth, recognition, and censure; in this way, it controls everyone and everything.
The Moscow Lutherans are trying to save their church, though they have only a slim chance of success. The Bolsheviks have hit on a formula that allows them to close down churches “at the request of the workers.” Members of the Young Communist League go from door to door, asking everyone in the district whether they are in favor of combating religious obscurantism. Those who agree are asked to sign a petition. Nobody dares refuse; if anyone breathes a word in support of religious freedom, their bosses will be informed immediately, and the black sheep will be the first in line for the chop during the next workplace purge.
I cannot imagine what will happen to the Volga Germans if they are driven out of the St. Michael church. They are already living in atrocious conditions! Today, I saw crowds of haggard women and little kids as thin as rakes. The children haven’t had a proper wash in the bathhouse for months, and their mothers shave their heads to keep away the lice. There were no men or youths to be seen. They are all out working—trying to make money by hauling or loading.
I was immediately reminded of the internment camps for White Russians in China—but those were the result of the civil war. Now, in peacetime, the country has an artificially created refugee problem.
Babloyan asked me for a quite impossible sum. Of course, I wrote to Seibert, telling him how much money he needs to raise, but it’s unlikely he’ll manage to do anything. The German economy is in bad shape just now.
The whole situation drives me mad. On all sides, Soviet officials are perpetrating a dreadful, senseless orgy of cannibalism. But rather than devouring the flesh of their fellow citizens, they eat up their time and energy—in other words, life itself.