David Shrayer-Petrov: Dinner with Stalin

David Shrayer-Petrov

Dinner with Stalin

(2008)

Translated from the Russian by Aleksandra Fleszar and Arna Bronstein.

I once read this account by a nineteenth-century Russian memoirist. On the balcony of an opera house, at the end of the 1890s, the memoirist saw Pushkin, as an old man. The memoiritst was so struck by this that during the intermission he ran to Pushkin's box to assure the great poet that he had never accepted his death after the duel as real. Pushkin's presence was felt this strongly every minute of every Russian's life. Just before the memoirist reached the box, someone whispered to him that Pushkin's son Aleksandr, already an old man, was present in the theater.

At the beginning of the 1980s I came across another example of such a striking effect brought on by the resemblance of an individual not well known to society--actually, a resemblance to his famous relative. Not long before that, I was expelled from the Union of Soviet Writers and the Literary Fund for having submitted an application to the OVIR--the Visa Office--to emigrate to Israel. I didn't have a paying job. I could have been convicted of parasitism and sent out of Moscow "to the hundred-and-first kilometer"--as people commonly referred to this government action. I had to find a solution. That is, I started took for some work, not literary work, of course. But I just couldn't find any legal and honorable employment. I turned to a couple of my fellow literati from among those who had not rejected me, had not become frightened of being in contact with a "traitor to the Motherland." Shereshevsky, a colleague whom I had known from translating Lithuanian poetry, suggested a certain writer, whose name I have to change here to a fictitious one, let's say, Krasikov. Even today I see his name mentioned, not often, but I do see it now and again, on the satire and humor page of the Literary Gazette. Shereshevsky mentioned Krasikov, and I remembered that there was a time when I used to "send his way" some poetry translation work, if time was of the essence and a particular commission was more than I could handle. To make a long story short, I called Krasikov, we met, nd he, if truth be told, without particular enthusiasm but out of a sense of duty, nevertheless did agree to help me become a member of the Moscow writers' local union. This Krasikov was a very important figure in the local writers' union. Considering the times, Krasikov's action (hesitancy aside) was a heroic deed on the part of this writer loyal to the powers that be.

From time to time I was invited to attend a poetry panel at the local writers' union. While the union was the lowest rung of the literary ladder, the verses of my new colleagues were no worse and no better than those read in the poetry section of the Union of Soviet Writers. Since I missed the literary world, I didn't refuse such invitations, but I myself would never read, knowing that my poetry would immediately and totally expose me. An inveterate billiard player, Mitasov, with whom I used to play at the Central House of Writers, read his poetry at one of these events. I had known Mitasov through the poet Shklyarevsky. Mitasov's poetry was saturated with the Voronezh regional dialect: there were many good poems, almost a whole collection. He read vigorously. He did everything vigorously: played billiards, sang Gypsy romances (himself looking quite the Gypsy), and read poetry. There were about twenty people in the room. All of us were listening enthusiastically. Listening to or reading good poetry is like skiing down a mountain slope: you fly by, taking no notice of the mountains or trees that you leave behind on the sides of the trail. So I kept flying down the mountain without immediately noticing that other listeners had come to a halt. I also braked to a stop and noticed that Mitasov was looking somewhere over my head, and the rest of the people sitting in front of me were looking back. Not at me, of course, but looking somewhere over my shoulders. I also turned around. Looming behind the last row of chairs, like the legendary cop Uncle Styopa sprung from the pages of children's verses, was the tall figure of the chief poet of the Soviet land, Sergei Mikhalkov, author of the lyrics to the Soviet national anthem. What was he doing here among the semi-destitutde brotherhood of third-rate literati? Could he really have come to hear Mitasov read? Hurray for Mitasov! Mikhalkov stood there for a while and left without saying a word. Mitasov resumed his reading and somehow made it to the end of the trail. Someone, s was the fashion in those harsh years, made some comments about the form and content of the poetry that had just been read. Some praised it, others criticized it.

I left the building together with the distressed Mitasov.

'Forget it, don't take it to heart!' I consoled him. 'Don't let that Mikhalkov get to you!'

'That's the whole point--it's not that one!'

'What do you mean not that one? Which one then?'

'That was the older brother of the real Mikhalkov. He's also a member of our local writers' union. They look alike, like twins. Nature graced the Mikhalkov look-alike with the same appearance as his famous brother, but not so with talent. Probably for his own gratification he occasionally appears at some literary events, produces a deafening effect, and departs. Satisfied, like a silent extra on stage made up to look like a celebrity.'

I asked Mitasov, 'What do you think, do the wax figures in Madame Tussaud's Museum enjoy their fame, if only as the result of one of the visitors' momentary confusion?'

Together Mitasov and me went to the Central House of Army Officers, where he was employed as a billiards coach, and we drank zealously to the success of his next book.

Many years went by. The story I want to tell deposited itself onto the previous one, like layers of soil, one on top of the other. Pushkin and Balzac liked to create multilayered narratives. Many years went by. My wife, son and me emigrated and settled in Providence, capital of the smallest US state, Rhode Island. Providence can be compared to Monte Carlo, and Rhode Island to the principality of Monaco. But no matter where one lives, in a village or in a city, in Monte Carlo or in Providence, one is drawn to one's own countrymen. Immigrants from Russia and its former colonies are no exception. Over the years a group of us had gravitated to each other. One after another. There was a married couple from Yerevan, both psychologists. Another husband and wife, atomic energy experts, were refugees from Nagorno-Karabach. Then there was a sculptor and his wife, she a painter, both from Moscow. And all the others were also from Moscow: a pair of mathematicians, a historian and his wife the horticulturalist, and finally, myself, an author, and my wife, a translator from Russian to English and vice versa. As members fo our circle joked nostalgically, "There and back, there and back again."

We would take turns getting together at each other's homes. More often than not at the apartment fo the energy experts from Karabakh, Grisha and his lovely wife Galya. Grisha and Galya's hospitality was charged with such volcanic force that it would constantly erupt through the planned, round-robin schedule of the get-together in other homes. Without discussing it with us, the members of our circle, Grisha would call us up (and to tell the truth, we would be always happy to hear from him) and announce:

'This Friday (or Saturday, as the case might be) a special get-together will take place at my house. The occasion is very deserving. My best friend and schoolmate from Baku (or Moscow, St Pete, Yerevan, Tashkent, Nizhny Novgorod, Tbilisi etc.) is coming to visit. On this way from New York'

How could anyone say no to Gisha?

I must admit that the events which unfolded during one such special, sumptuous dinner at Grisha's were provoked by two amusing incidents, both of them resulting from a similarity of outward appearance. Only a couple fo weeks before that special dinner, during a party at the home of Alyosha the historian and his wife Tosya, I had just been telling my friends about these two incidents. It was then that I remembered about the memoiritst who mistook Pushkin's aging son for the great poet himself, as though Pushkin had survived the duel. And during that very same evening (whatever made me do it!) I also mentioned the incredible resemblance of the two Mikhalkov brothers and the almost hypnotic effect of believing in the presence of a famous personage.

To make a long story short, Grisha tucked this idea away and prepared quite a spectacle. This time he justified the extraordinary get-together by the arrival fo a "People's National Meritorious Actor" from Tbilisi, Georgia. Without putting any particular pressure on us, but with the confidence in the power of the fact itself, Grisha explained:

'My friend is a leading actor at the Marjanishvili Drama Theater in Tbilisi. He knows many interesting details about the lives of famous people!'

Even if one had something very pressing to do, it was impossible to resist the double temptation: to find oneself yet again the hospitable home of Grish and GAlya, and, on top of that, to spend time at the same table with a leading actor from the renowned Marjanishvili Theater.

Grisha and Galya lived in a small apartment on the first floor of a typical American double-decker, the kind it is built to rent to those who have not acquired taste or have not saved enough money to buy property. Our friends had neither acquired nor saved. It seemed as though everything that they could have put away from their earnings went to the monthly gastronomical festivals.

There was a television set in the living room, and the table was set for dinner. On the desk in the other corner of the room there was a computer. Photographs of their grandson and granddaughter hung up on the walls. A very strange picture ofvthe operatic abduction of Pushkin's Ludmila by the grey-bearded dwarf, the sorcerer Chernomor, strutted above the person who would be seated at the head of the table. A hunting rifle hung on the opposite wall above the television set. Hunting was the only form of amusement that Grisha allowed himself, apart from the organization of these get-togethers.

All of us came on time, as was the Russian custom (snobs call it provincialism). Dinner is at five, but the guests all arrive by 4.45. That was the established way. And should one of us be half an hour late, Grisha would keep running outside every ten minutes, constantly calling the guilty person's cell phone.

This time everybody had arrived at the appointed hour; some were drinking beer, some whisky, and others wine. Grisha went to pick up the guest of honor at the local airport. We were all drinking a little, discussing the latest political events and sports news from both here and there and we all kept looking at the door and at the clock: when will Grisha bring the guest? Flights are late sometimes. Grisha's wife Galya suggested we come to the table. We did not object. The zakuski were excellent: smoked salmon, caviar, salads, and various pickled vegetables! And all this was accompanied by the best wines and vodkas. Just the Grey Goose alone cost a fortune! In fact, we were starting to forget the main reason why we had all gathered together. The honored guest from Tbilisi swam in our collective imagination somewhere outside of the realm of that wonderful meal. Had it not been for the fact that we missed Grisha's toasts, we could have done perfectly well without the expected Georgina "People's National Meritorious Actor."

Our resident humorist, Sanya the sculptor, had just finished telling his vintage joke about some fools jumping into a pool where there was no water, when the front door slammed, and, walking with quick steps, Stalin entered the room where we wre feasting. Mincing his steps, our hospitable host Grisha (a man of gigantic height with a bull's unbending neck and head) followed Stalin. And what a sight it was! Bristling, Grisha seemed to have shrunk in height. His steps were tiny, and his head was bent down. In the meantime, Stalin pushed the empty chair back and sat at the head of the table, under the picture of Chernomor and Ludmila. He burrowed in the pocket of his military jacket and pulled out a pipe and a tobacco pouch. I was sitting nearby, and I reached for his pipe in order to pack it with tobacco, but Stalin grabbed the pouch.

'No need! I pack it myself!'

Alyosha the historian passed Grisha a box of matches that were earmarked for the Sabbath candles they had brought especially for Mira and me. I thought that Stalin looked askance at the candles that had just been lit, but he kept silent. Alyosha caught the leader's unkind or disapproving glance. As though making a joke, he said that it wsz getting too hot and moved the candles away onto the sideboard. Strangely enough, Mira and me pretended not to notice this manipulation involving the Sabbath candles. Even now, I don't understand why we did it.

Tosya, Alyosha's wife and pure soul that she is, spoke her mind: 'What do you mean it's too hot! For ten years it hasn't been hot, and suddenly we're sweating from candles!'

Alyosha chuckled ambiguously and swallowed a half a glass of Black Label scotch.

Stalin slowly finished smoking his pipe, knocked out the leftover tobacco and ashes onto an empty saucer, and finally allowed Grisha to pour him a full glass of Alazani Valley, a famous Georgina red wine.

'Thank you, esteemed Grigory, for remembering the leader's favourite wine!' And then he repeated, 'You didn't forget Alazani Valley. The leader's favorite wine. Yes indeed, one can often find fault with both the wine and the one drinking it.'

'WE never forgot you, Iosif Vissarionovich!' said Grisha and folded into himself even more.

It seemed to me that his wife Galya was about to explode but then held herself back, the way sincere and well-mannered women can burn from embarrassment or form shame. She was ready to explode, but kept her silence. The funniest thing (or whatever else you may want to call it) was that even to me everything was beginning to seem both real and grotesque. Like in Ray Bradbury's short story "Darling Adolf". Bradbury's actor took to his role as Hitler enthusiastically, and what about here?

In the meantime Stalin finished his wine, chased it down with a few cilantro leaves that he pinches off the stems, one after another, with his yellow, widely spaced teeth, and again looked over the table. I thought his glance stopped at the mathematicians Zhora and Ella. What attracted the leader's attention: Zhora's mane of grey rumpled hair or Ella's face, overly enhanced with theatrical make-up? I wouldn't venture to guess. Stalin picked up his dark brown curved pipe from the table, grabbed the mouthpiece with his lips as if he were about to smoke again, then returned the pipe to the table, and addressed Zhora:

'If I'm not mistaken, we met in my Kremlin office at the end of 1950? At a meeting about thermonuclear energy, right?'

Zhora remained silent.

Stalin continued, 'I could not be mistaken. I have a photographic memory!' With his strong accent, he enunciated "fah-tah-grra-fik".

'It was probably my father. They say we really look alike, Iosif Vissarionovich,' Zhora answered.

'Your last name?'

'Zelman.' Zhora answered.

'Time flies so quickly, but memory attempts to slow it down!' Stalin said and downed a big shot glass of Grey Goose vodka that Grisha had poured for him.

I should add that Grisha never did manage to sit down, all the while standing behind or net to our guest's chair in order to keep refilling his wine glass and shot glass. Stalin was fastidiously following some private algorithm of alternating Alazani Valley and Grey Goose. The guest from Tbilisi was eating very little: some vegetables, one chunk of the lamb shashlyk, a small scoop of the pilaf. His face was not cleanly shaven, or it seemed that way owing to his uneven, pockmarked skin, the result of having had bad acne or even smallpox. But his mustache! The Leader's classic mustache. Children of Stalin's time still remember Stalin's portrait in a military jacket or overcoat, a Marshal's brimmed cap, and a pipe with his mustache pressed against his mouthpiece. The beloved Stalin’s mustache. I was staring at this mustache as though hypnotized, and couldn't tear my eyes away.

'What's wrong with you? I have asked you to pass me the shrimp three times already!' Mira pinched me to bring me back to reality.

'Sorry, I was just thinking!' I muttered, thankful for her timely gesture of spousal concern.

Thank God! Stalin was paying no attention to me. I forgot to mention that at the very beginning Grisha wanted to introduce all ofus one by one to the guest from Tbilisi, but the guest waved him off:

'We'll become acquainted (aak-vaint-teed) as the evening progresses!'

Actually, by that point in the evening the host had had a chance to mention my name. The guest of honor nodded coldly, and I thought of an anti-Stalin long poem I had written in 1956. I remembered it and then pulled myself together.

'No, he couldn't have read it, he died in 1953!'

I have already mentioned that there was a couple from Yerevan in our group of friends, a husband and wife, Vlad and Asya. They always initiated distended discussions about psychology. That is, they would analize any occurrence or even from the point of view of modern psychology based on Freud's or Jung's thought, although not without a distinctive Soviet seasoning being detectable in their arguments. So during discussions, as needed, they would also invoke Sechenov and Pavlov, the Russian patriarchs of the physiology of the nervous system.

This time, as well, Vlad was first to venture to ask Stalin a professional question, 'Iosif Vissarionovich, and how would you solve the present-day problems of Karabakh, using psychology?'

Stalin took a sip of wine from his glass. He continued to alternate Alazani Valley with Grey Goose. He drank some wine, picked up his pipe from the table, turned it over so that it looked like an ancient pistol, aimed it at Vlad's chest, and answered:

'I wouldn't even bother with psychology. I'd just shoot the investigators on the Azeri side as well as on the Armenian side. Both groups are bourgeois nationalists undermining the friendship of brotherly nations of the Caucasus!'

For a while everyone fell silent, concentrating on their plates and glasses. But a natural tamada, a feat's appointed toastmaster, does not tolerate silence at the table. Particularly if this tamada is also a welcoming host. By this time, Grisha had allowed himself the right to sit down, albeit near the guest from Tbilisi. In any case, it was better than standing like a butler behind Stalin's back. Grisha took a seat, poured himself a full glass of vodka, a tall glass meant for Borzhomi mineral water. he drank this powerful dose of Grey Goose to the friendship of nations. All of us did. Stalin took a sip and retreated into himself, as if he were pondering how and where he would direct the rest of the evening. By this time the gigantic glass of vodka began to buzz in Grisha's head; he got up from his chair, returning to his powerful height, haughty bearing, and orator's talent.

'I must sincerely apologize, Iosif Vissarionovich, but what should my wife and I have done? We're both from Karabatkah. I'm Azeri, and she's Armenian!'

Stalin turned his head to him:

'I already said: first of all (forrced-off-ol) the instigators should be shot, secondly (say-kand-lee) reinstate the friendship of nations at the government level and at the level of the family! That's what Mars and Lenin taught us. The family is the primary unit of the state!'

Stalin said this and cast a glance over the hushed guests at the table. We were all silent. Suddenly the leader turned to Sanya and his wife Sonya. They were accomplished masters of mixed media installations combining sculpture and painting. They had started working together a long time ago, when they were still at the university. And even today no one in Russia could compete with them in this genre. Since their commissions came both from Russia and from America, they would spend half a year in Moscow and half a year in Providence. Suddenly Staling turned to "our artists", as we affectionately called Sanya and Sonya.

'Listen, my dear friends, did we not meet in the old days?' he asked.

'We did, Comrade Stalin!' Sanya answered, and shook his angled bangs that flew above his large Varangian nose.

'And I also remember it.' Sonya added, gently smiling at the leader.

'Can you be more specific on which occasion?' Stalin asked.

'A few students from the Surikov Art Institute were chosen, and Sanya and I were among them. They brought us to the Kremlin. You, Iosif Vissarionovich, were standing there, next to a Persian lilac bush. Sanya and I drew sketches. You, Iosif Vissarionovich, personally approved our work.'

'Where is this work now?'

'We don't know, Iosif Vissarionovich.' Sanya the sculptor answered this time.

'You don't know! Enemies and traitors destroyed my portraits and my statues to demean the honor of our socialist Motherland! And you didn't even try to defend and protect a work of art. Am I not right?'

Sanya, a talker and a witty man, was silent this time, looking down and not shaking his bands as he usually did when he felt confident. And Sonya was almost reduced to tears, afraid to raise her eyes and anger the leader even more.

Luckily, Grisha found an answer. He poured everyone wine and vodka. Filling his own glass again with Grey Goose, he raised a toast to the eternal youth of art and literature and "to Comrade Stalin's youthful verses as a clear example of everlasting poetry!"

I watched the leader's facial expressions. He frowned but remained silent, puffing on his pipe. I'm not sure how this came to be, but as the need arose, I would pack his pipe and give him a light. Stalin no longer objected.

'Now I will read a wonderful lyrical poem, Morning, written by Comrade Stalin in his youth.' Grisha proudly announced, and took a sip from his glass before starting.

We all waited, amazed by the way our tadama managed to anticipate everything. Grisha began to recite:

The rosebud has opened up,

It's leaning towards the violet,

While waking up in the gentle breeze

The bluebells bow over the grass.

And in the morning blue, the lark

Is flying higher than the clouds,

And the sweet sounding nightingale

From treetops sings the children a song.

"Bloom, o my Georgia! Let peace

Reign supreme always in my native land!

And you, my friends, through studies praise,

And further glorify our Motherland!"

We all applauded. Grisha wiped the sweat off his brow. Stalin was morosely silent.

I was praying to God that our guest from Tbilisi would not remember my profession as a man of letters. I'm sure that he didn't forget about it even for a minute. But out of some unweathering sadism he turned not to me, but to Mira. I had seen how incensed she became while listening to these verses. She was the only one who did not applaud. Without addressing her by her name and patronymic, or at least by her first name, Stalin asked my Mira:

'You, a professional translator. What do you think of the poem that was just recited?'

'One would have to compare it to the original...' Mira replied, evading the question. 'It's hard to expect a great deal from the poems of a young person--and in translation, on top of that!'

Suddenly Stalin became agitated, his eyes lit up, and he ordered:

'Listen to this poem in Georgian!'

He pushed his chair back, raised himself to his full, not very tall, stature, and waving his pipe around, began to read sonorous verses in a language we couldn't understand. WE applauded again. But this time with complete sincerity.

It seemed that a certain balance was established when the haze of imagination, mystification, or hypnosis began to scatter, and each of us wanted the visiting actor to liberate us at last from this terrible fairytale that harkened back to an even more horrible time of our real past.

But at this point, as they say in Russia, the devil pushed Ella, a song-loving boozer, to remember her accordion. She slid off her chair, darted into the hallway and returned with her instrument, almost half the sizer of the musician herself. Ella stretched out the bellows, which sighed thankfully, like the hero of Russian epic songs, Ilya Muromets, after waking up from a long slumber.

Stuttering slightly from excitement and all the wine she had consumed, Ella announced:

'And now together we will all sing an inspirational popular song from the time of the Great Patriotic War, March of the Artillery Men'

She gave her raucous instrument a rhythm, and we picked up the song:

"Artillerymen, Stalin ordered you!

Artillerymen, our country calls to battle!

From many thousands of guns

We shall avenge our mothers' tears,

For our Motherland: Fire! Fire on!"

Ella remembered all the lyrics. WE followed her and her accordion and sang the entire song to the end. Stalin sang along with us, and when the song ended, he shouted:

'Comrades, let's drink to the Motherland! To Stalin!'

Everyone drank with the exception of my Mira and the historian Alyosha.

'And you, do you two need a special invitation?' asked our guest from Tbilisi, stretching forth his hand, which had emerged from the sleeve of his army-green jacket like a vulture out of its nest, and pointing his old man's, tremorous finger first at Mira, who was sitting to his left, and then at Alyosha.

'We've had enough of this masquerade!' Mira's words sliced the air. 'But if you really want to know, I will drink under one condition: if you, the genius leader and teacher, explains to us why it is that in order to have peace on earth and humanity's progress it was necessary to fabricate the Kremlin's doctors' plot. Why was it necessary to break of the joints of my uncle's arms and legs, he a famous surgeon who spent the entire four years saving lives of the war front? For the sake of what lofty ideal was it necessary to design mass deportations of Jews, as had been done earlier to the Volga Germans, the Crimean Tatars, and the Chechens? For what, if not to complete the genocide of Jews Hitler had started?'

Stalin was deeply pensive. Mira covered her face with a napkin. Her shoulders were heaving from sobbing.

Finally, the leader said: 'We wanted to save the Soviet Jewry, poisoned by Zionist propaganda, from the justified anger of the Russian people. It was for this reason the workers' settlements with modern housing were built in distant regions of Siberia--for example, Birobdzhan--and factories, plants, and collective farms established nearby. Let my words be confirmed by another doubter. In those years his father was in charge of the Ministry of Construction.'

This time the predatory bird of Stalin's hand stretched toward Alyosha.

'That's not true!' Alyosha intoned. 'Actually, the construction of housing for future deportees was handed over to Lavrenty Beria. And he made sure that the barracks were built with boards that had spaces the size of a finger between them. My father reported that to the Politburo. He stated that it would be a crime to settle Jewish families in such inhumane conditions. For this, he was immediately arrested by state security police.'

'Don't turn your father into a starving little orphan! As soon as they let him out, he immediately exacted revenge for his own arrest by executing Beria, without trial or investigation.'

'And what did you want, a new bloody terror!?' Alyosha asked.

'By that time I couldn't want anything because, thanks to your father's unbridled and inflammatory speech at the Politburo, an artery exploded in my brain, which led to my final demise. Your father, although he had always danced to my tune in the literal and figurative sense, was the first to spit into my grave. He even threw my corpse out of the mausoleum.'

'But unfortunately you're alive now! You've returned from the other side and you continue to emit a foul odor.'

Alyosha had had a lot to drink. He had emptied an entire bottle of Black Label scotch. We knew that he was uncontrollable in heated argument, and he had learned to avoid confrontation. In everyday life Alyosha was a most civilized and pleasant person. But now! We had never seen him in such a state. His cheeks flushed red, his eyes were darting around the room, as if looking for something. He knew exactly what he wanted. Alyosha jumped from his chair, and before we realized it, he snatched Grisha's hunting rifle off the wall.

'Stop! You've lost your mind!' the guest from Tbilisi shouted and ripped off his glued-on mustache.

But it was too late: a shot rang out. Everyone froze. When the smoke had settled, we saw a man in a military jacket lying face down on the table and covering his head with his hands. Above him the picture of Chernomor and Ludmila was rocking back and forth, riddled with large pellets.