Almost one fourth of my by-no-means extraordinary life was spent under the rule of Soviet demigod Joseph Stalin, who as everyone knows gave up the ghost on March 5th, 1953, at the age of 74. Having lived three quarters of a century myself, I can't say that my historical experience is a source of pride, but rather a reason to reflect. There are no longer a lot of people left on this earth who can recall the days of Roosevelt, Churchill and Stalin. Of course, Stalin knew nothing of my existence. And what did I know about him? During the 1930s, people with access to reliable information were gradually prepared for Uncle Joe's transition from a man of the people to the devil's own. I, on the other hand, only received the full brunt of
the truth after the great dictator's death.
Little Joe
However, looking back, it seems as though the more I was exposed to Stalin's indefatigable pose on the pages of newspapers or in five-minute film clips, the further I slipped from the path of blind faith into the ditch of political nihilism. Memories of my early childhood years are still dubbed over with the monotone voice of my father, who in the evenings would read newspaper reports on court cases against "enemies of the people" aloud, syllable by syllable, like other poorly educated people of his time. Still in my school uniform, I would sit at the kitchen table penciling out the faces of yesterday's state heroes in my textbook.
Later, as a teen, my political education would achieve artistic expression during my participation in the Komsomol, or Communist youth organization. In 1948, while in the 10th grade, I found myself engaged in a fiery debate: How long would it take for the teachings of Stalin to become known as Stalinism, as happened with Marxism and Leninism? In the middle of my passionate monologue I happened to catch the glance of my Ukrainian-language teacher. Her usually large and languishing eyes had narrowed into a hateful stare.
I felt like a drunk suddenly made aware of his shameful behavior. Thereafter, my extended hangover was marked by increased sensitivity to sounds and scenes that I had hitherto never noticed. Now, as I passed by a group of grubby workmen discussing politics among themselves in a courtyard, I could clearly hear the word "Little Joe," expressed with bitter irony. While riding in a streetcar, I begin to notice how passengers exchanged sardonic looks over official newspaper headlines. And when I learned that the windowless train cars that rolled in and out of the city at night carried "live" cargo as well, I could hardly disguise my embarrassment for thinking otherwise.
Mission Impossible
Communist volunteer work during my studies at Kyiv University put the finishing touches on my political and personal evolution, making me into the suspicious crank that I still bear traces of today. For the first three years of my higher education, right up to the death of Little Joe himself, I was made responsible for visiting a Kyiv family that had been deemed ideologically regressive by the local party authorities.
But before I even crossed the threshold of their communal flat, I unconsciously determined to sabotage my socialist mission. It wasn't just that I had been seduced by the smell of onion pies and homemade Borsch. The lady of the house, Zina, completely disarmed me with her warm greetings and Jewish hospitality. True, she initially seemed
a bit put off by my military overcoat, which I wore as much for bohemian effect as for wintertime warmth. But after a quick once-over from behind her horn-rimmed glasses, she ushered me into the high-ceilinged living room and sat me on a lumpy couch across from a distorted mirror.
Her husband, Samuel Moyseyivich, was a tailor, but wore only suspenders over an armpitless undershirt during my visits. Then there was Aunt Betty, Zina's younger sister, who had never been married and probably never would be. Initially, out of a sense of respectability rather than socialist duty, I would read only the "meatier" parts of my lectures, trying to be solemn if not sincere. "Please excuse the mess," Zina would always say when I arrived, at which point I would recall that Stalin was a great advocate of cleansing - the streets, the arts and people who aspired to power.
Sometimes I would add tenor to my speech if I thought my audience was drifting off. In response, Zina would gently swat the cat she was holding in her arms as if to make sure that the shaggy beast was also paying attention. "Listen up, you furry rascal!" she would exclaim with self satisfaction. Moseyivich would light up in response. Throughout the hour-and-a-half-long sessions, held on the last Thursday of each month, he always looked like he was ready to hear something new.
One time, during my report on efficiency in the workplace, Moseyivich abruptly got up from his chair and yanked an abacus off the wall. During the war, the family had been evacuated to the Urals, where Moseyivich worked as bookkeeper at an arms plant. "I'll show you how to count," he shouted with a red face. Betty always remained quiet if not attentive. Her mind seemed to be somewhere else, which considering the subject matter of my lectures, didn't altogether surprise me.
Aunt Betty's Secret
On December 21st, 1952, Stalin turned 74. This fell on the last Thursday of the month, the day I was expected to make my usual visit. At this point, I had cut back my readings to a summary of local Komsomol announcements. The rest of the time, we played cards or talked about art. Moyseyivich considered himself an amateur actor and exploited any chance to do his Charley Chaplin routine. It just so happened that I had come across a bottle of Armenian Cognac for helping a well-connected underclassmen pass his midterm exams.
The discussion that night was lively, and some of the residents from the other side of the communal toilet joined in. Moyseyivich pretended to be Hitler, and everyone laughed along. Someone else went into a Trotsky speech, and got a similar response. What about "Little Joe," I blurted out, unthinkingly. Everyone went silent. Zina started mechanically rearranging things on the table, and Moyseyivich turned white, then gray and back to red. The neighbors from down the hall didn't even blink, as if trying to hear if anyone was listening nearby.
Aunt Betty left the room. After a few awkward moments, the conversation picked back up. I went to find the toilet. While traversing the corridor, lined with wall cabinets and boxes, I saw Betty whispering into the phone through a crack in the kitchen door. Involuntarily, I stiffened up like a terrified animal, then began approaching as quietly as I could. The conversation from the living room seemed miles away. Betty looked nervous, even guilty. Her face twitched as she listened to the person on the other end of the line. I didn't even think as I pressed my ear to the door. I just needed to hear what she was saying and whom she was saying it to. "Yes mama, I'll drop by tomorrow. I'll pick up the medicine and stop by. Is he already asleep?"
During a later visit, I learned that Aunt Betty had a little boy whose father had died during the war. The child lived with Betty's mother in Odessa. The fact that none of my hosts ever learned about my suspicions that night didn't make me feel any less guilty. Nevertheless, it would be a long time before my fear of being snitched on subsided more or less permanently.
Innocence Lost
On March 1st, 1953, millions of people from the largest country on earth had begun to huddle near the loudspeakers hung along the streets of their urban centers, as if they were expecting an update on an asteroid flying a collision course with their planet.
The next day, the number of no-good sound boxes perched on lampposts increased - apparently to thin out the burgeoning crowds and ease traffic. Reports filled with gloomy medical terms were made several times a day. The almighty, all-knowing and immortal Stalin was slipping into non-existence. The maker of steel, bread, matches and soap would be gone, and none of his generals, bureaucrats or factory directors would be big or bold enough to fill his place.
Finally, on March 5th, still cold and snowy in Kyiv, the mourning began in full neo-Byzantine dimension. Men looked hard as stone, women went unpainted and pale. By the end of that day, my curiosity exhausted, feet frozen and mood gloomier than ever, I hopped on an electric train in the direction of my student dormitory on the outskirts of town.
The train car was only half full, but martial melancholy presided over an all pervasive observance of deathly silence. Stalin was dead. Then, just a few stops out of the center, a thin young teen and a girl with pigtails got on arm in arm. The boy was carrying flowers and chocolates. Gently warming the tiny hands of his companion, the thin teen didn't notice the incinerating glares of some of the other passengers. The first to deliver the message of social indignation was a small-mouthed man in a worn brown coat, who stepped up and promptly slapped the young man across his cheek. An elderly woman sitting near the girl started shaking her by the collar, as if trying to warn her and punish her at the same time. "Shame on You!" she almost cried.
Almost instantaneously, one, then a few other passengers began calling on the driver to stop the train - although the next stop was half a kilometer away. The youth, his face still stinging from the slap as much as the disgrace, tried to help the girl step down onto the snowy embankment, but the small-mouthed man kept shoving him in the small of his back. After a few missteps, the girl found the guardrail and looked back in time to see her companion jumping off the train behind her. But they set off in different directions.
After picking up the box of chocolates and stringy bouquet dropped in fear by the outcasts, I pushed my way through the still open doors and huddle of passengers who stood cursing them.
I caught up to the boy and almost ordered him to take his gifts to his girl friend and see her home. After looking at my military overcoat (which always seemed to be creating difficulties for me), he asked timidly "Can I?"
"Stalin is dead," I told him, "you don't have to be afraid." He took the chocolates and flowers and ran off to catch up to the girl in ponytails, who was still trying to climb up the embankment. Picking up speed, the train moved by beneath me. I was standing almost diagonally on the frosty embankment. One of the passengers was shaking his fist at me through the window. At that point, it occurred to me that maybe I shouldn't have told the boy not to be afraid. As life would show me, I had definitely been hasty with my advice.
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