“Pretty soon,” he said, “every working man will receive a cartload of firewood for the winter. And don’t worry about paraffin! The Soviet authorities will bring electricity into every home, even the humblest worker’s cabin.”
After lengthy and noisy applause, Babloyan bowed and set off toward the exit with his entourage.
On stage, the amateur concert resumed.
Klim barely managed to catch up with Babloyan in the corridor.
“I wanted to ask you a small favor, sir. Do you remember our conversation about the Volga Germans?”
Babloyan glanced meaningfully toward the lavatories and then announced to his henchmen, “Wait here. I won’t be a moment.”
In the men’s lavatories, a tap was dripping, and the walls echoed with the sound of water trickling into the enamel basin. A dim light filtered in through the window, which had been half painted over.
“We now have enough money to sort out the passports and the cost of freight,” Klim spoke in a low voice.
He told Babloyan about the Canada plan and about Hilda Schultz.
Babloyan considered his words, frowning.
“All right,” he said at last. “Bring me the money and a list of the names of all your Germans.”
“What about an interview with Stalin?” Klim added. “Do you think it might still be possible to organize?”
Babloyan looked at Klim uncomprehendingly. “Why do you want an interview with Stalin?”
“Our readers want to know what’s happening in the USSR.”
“Then they should read Pravda. It’s all there in black and white,” said Babloyan curtly, and then he left.
Alov had come to the Elektrozavod Club before the concert began. During the performance, he had been standing beside Klim Rogov, inconspicuous in his peaked cap and standard-issue jacket and trousers from the Moscow state clothing factory.
He was intrigued to see Rogov sit down next to Comrade Babloyan. What, he wondered, was the connection between the two of them?
But soon, Alov saw something that distracted him completely from thoughts of work. Dunya, his Dunya, was up on stage, behaving in the most shameless manner.
For some time now, Alov had not been going to watch his wife perform. He had always said that he trusted her implicitly, but now, he felt that this had been a mistake. In the first place, some young fellow was carrying her about on his shoulders, which meant that a certain part of her anatomy was coming into contact with the man’s neck. Besides this, Dunya had performed some “Dance of the Conveyor Belt,” which had involved high kicks and a run out on stage in some makeshift sort of toga that looked as if it might fall off at any moment. The very idea was enough to make Alov die of shame.
But the worst was yet to come. The next moment, Comrade Babloyan had got up on stage and begun to praise Dunya’s good looks in front of everyone. Alov knew very well that Babloyan was a notorious womanizer. Did he have his eye on Dunya?
When Rogov and Babloyan left the hall, Alov hurried after them and saw them turn off the corridor into the lavatories.
Babloyan’s henchmen waited patiently for him. At last, he emerged, and they set off toward the lobby. Alov stared after him furiously. There wasn’t much even an OGPU agent could do against a member of the Central Committee. Such people existed outside the law and outside any moral codes; they simply took whatever they wanted.
Soon, Rogov came out into the corridor too. Alov darted up to him and showed him his OGPU identity card.
“What were you just talking about with Babloyan?” he demanded.
The two of them stood glaring stiffly at one another.
“My bosses are insisting that I arrange an interview with Stalin,” said Rogov at last. “So, I asked Comrade Babloyan to help. But he told me there’s nothing he can do.”
“Is that all you talked about?” asked Alov, his voice thick with mistrust.
“Well, no. We talked about actresses too.”
“Which actresses?”
“The ones who just performed; the girls from the Blue Blouse. Dunya Odesskaya has made quite an impression on Comrade Babloyan, it seems.”
Alov pulled his amber beads from under his cuff and began to click them rapidly to and fro. He was smarting with fury. Just think, this sleek, pampered bourgeois prig thought he had the right to discuss any woman he chose and to demand an interview with Stalin himself!
“Excuse me,” said Rogov, “but I have to go.”
The upstart did not even feel the slightest alarm at being faced by an OGPU agent. It seemed he had no idea that Alov could have him deported and his visa annulled with no more than a snap of his fingers.
With great effort, Alov forced himself to speak politely and calmly. “We’re interested in talking to a woman by the name of Nina Kupina,” he said. “You don’t happen to know where she is?”
Rogov shrugged. “No idea. We met on a driving course.”
“Don’t lie to me!” Alov said. “A few months ago, you were interested in the whereabouts of this same individual.”
It was clear from Rogov’s face that he had not expected the OGPU to be so well-informed.
“So, what do you say?” Alov asked in an insinuating tone.
Rogov winced like some businessman pestered by a street beggar. “Is this an interrogation?”
“No, it’s an offer,” said Alov. “I’d like you to cooperate with us. Who knows when you might need a connection in the OGPU?”
“Good evening.” Rogov left without even holding out his hand.
Just you watch out! thought Alov. I’ve got my eye on you.
If there was one thing Alov could not bear, it was when other people failed to treat him with respect.
31. THE SOLOVKI PRISON CAMP
As soon as the passport made out in the name of Hilda Schultz was ready, Klim went to buy Nina’s ticket to Berlin. Fortunately, there were no queues for international trains.
On the way to Saltykovka, he pictured how Nina would meet him at the gate and ply him with impatient questions. “Well?” she would ask him. “How did it go with the ticket?” Then he would pull a sad face just to tease her before producing his prize.
Whenever Nina heard good news, she reacted with girlish delight, gasping excitedly and dancing in celebration, and Klim could not wait to make her happy.
But this time, it was not Nina who opened the gate to Klim but Countess Belov. Her face wore an anxious expression, her eyebrows set in a tragic arch.
Klim felt his blood run cold. “What is it?”
“Elkin’s here,” the countess answered in a dreadful whisper.
Klim followed her into the small kitchen, which was hung with garlands of dried mushrooms, and stopped still, staring at the man sitting by the window.
The man was so thin that his bony shoulders protruded from his dirty military-style tunic. His crew-cut hair had gone completely gray, and his face was deeply lined. He still resembled the Elkin of old, yet at the same time, he looked quite different. It was unbelievable that a man could age so much in two months.
“What happened to you?” asked Klim, stunned.
Elkin smiled. All the teeth on the left-hand side of his mouth were missing.
“I was sent to the Solovki prison camp,” he said, “but I managed to run away.”
Nina came in to the kitchen carrying two pails of water on a carrying pole and put them down on the floor.
“Now, we’ll heat up some water,” said Countess Belov, turning to Elkin, “and you shall have a proper wash.”
Nina nodded briefly in Klim’s direction and began helping their hostess to light the stove. Not a word of greeting. It was as if she was afraid of insulting their guest by showing Klim any particular attention.