From
Reading Room/6:
They’ve Killed Gorky
A Childhood in Stalin’s Russia
Alexandra Kataeva-Venger
When Alexandra Kataeva-Venger was fourteen,
her father, a high-ranking Communist official in Kiev, was executed
by Stalin during the 1937 purges. Her family was stripped of
not only of their privileges, but of their basic needs. Homeless,
her mother, brother and Alexandra found themselves literally
erased out of existence. During that perilous time Alexandra
managed to keep notes on what happened day by day to her family,
and to the classmates and professors in her elite school in Kiev
who directly or through family members were also victims of the
purge. This excerpt from her memoir is about those times and
the bitter disillusionment with Communism that she and her contemporaries
experienced. It has been preserved by her daughter who brought
it from Israel. It is a The Reading Room discovery. We are proud
to publish it first. —The
Editors
Kiev: 1936
The idea that we were surrounded by enemies intruded ever more
persistently into our lives. At first they seemed quite far
away—in Nazi Germany and Spain. Defeat of the fascists
in Spain would set things straight. But it turned out that
things were much worse. Every day we were told that the fascists
were clever and shrewd; they sent their agents into all parts
of our country, bought off people who we thought were devoted
to the work of Lenin and Stalin, whom we almost worshiped.
Even physicians turned out to be poisoners, and engineers were
saboteurs. You couldn’t trust anyone around you.
One morning Papa unexpectedly came home from
work. The look on his face was terrible. He whispered something
to Mama, then drove me outside of town to the Goloseyevsky forest.
Hiking in the Goloseyevsky forest had always been a big event
for us, and at first I was very excited. But Papa was strangely
silent, the corners of his mouth were drooping and quivering,
and I began to feel frightened. In the forest, far from the
road, Papa sat me down on a fallen tree and said, finally, “They’ve
killed Gorky.” “Enemies?” I asked quickly. “He
was poisoned by a Doctor Pletnev, a professor.” Papa opened
a newspaper and read me the whole report. “That’s
monstrous. A physician can’t be a murderer. He took the
Hippocratic Oath. I don’t understand. I don’t understand
at all.” “No, he shouldn’t have come back.” “Who?” I
didn’t understand. “Gorky. He came back from Capri.
He shouldn’t have come back.”
This whole time Papa seemed not to be talking
to me, but to himself. And I stayed quiet. Papa began to recite
quietly the Song of Marko. And when he pronounced the last words, “And you
will live /on earth,/ like the blind worms live -/ no legends
will be told about you, /no songs about you will be sung.” I
asked again, “And if he hadn’t come back, wouldn’t
they have found him?” Papa didn’t answer right away. “Maybe.
Maybe. But there was a hostage here—Maksim.”
I was feeling worse and worse and understanding
less and less of what Papa was saying. One thing was clear: the
whole Soviet Union was encircled by fascist enemies. They were
powerful and insidious. “Papa, they won’t kill Stalin, will they?”
My father gave a start, as if waking up, and,
in a totally different, firm voice, said, “No, they won’t get to Stalin.
He’s too well protected. But I brought you out here to
tell you to be very careful. Don’t talk too much, even
with friends. Now, with Gorky gone, we have no guarantees. He
was the last person who could convey something to Europe. To
the world. Now it’s over.”
I still didn’t understand anything except that the enemies,
having gotten rid of Gorky, were even stronger now.
Nonetheless, everything that was going on,
everything we heard about every day, was still remote. We continued
to live our regular, outwardly normal lives. And inwardly we
recalled the enemies episodically, thought about fights with
fascists and prepared ourselves accordingly—schoolmates from the older classes
had already joined the aviation club, were flying and knew for
sure that they would be flyers, would fight the enemy in the
air, unquestionably over enemy territory. And we, the younger
ones, faithfully attended anti-aircraft defense sessions, proudly
carried bags containing gas masks and sang rollicking songs based
on Mayakovsky’s words, “When the storm of war/ returns
-/ we must know how to aim,/ know how to shoot./ March/ more
strongly/ Aim/ precisely!”
Thinking about an external enemy was much less
unpleasant and more appealing than some kind of secret, internal
enemy whom it is impossible to recognize. The idea of war, as
sad as it may be, seemed even attractive to us, and though fate
had denied us the good fortune of fighting in the civil war,
of combating the bourgeois, we would welcome the challenge of
fighting the fascists!
However, this upbeat martial stance was intermittently
subject to strange, incomprehensible events that evoked puzzlement
and doubts. This usually happened at home. Once I opened a drawer
in Papa’s desk. I don’t remember what I was looking
for, but my eyes suddenly fell on a small photograph of a young
woman with slightly-slanted Gypsy eyes. The woman was unfamiliar
to me, and I asked Mama, “Who is this?” “Basya,” Mama
replied. The same Basya?! I immediately stiffened, for I had
already created a legend for myself about how Papa’s younger
sister Basya had died during the civil war and relatives found
it difficult to talk about her, because they had loved her. And
now I learned that Basya was alive and well, and they were hiding
something from me!
Mama always knew my state of mind from the
first glance, and this time was no exception.
“You’re a grownup now,” said Mama, “I’ll
tell you, but you…”
And she told me that Basya had become a Menshevik,
like her husband Alik, and that both had been imprisoned already
in the Soviet era. This was horrible news! The Mensheviks were
our most terrible enemies... And right in our family! That was
worse than death. Poor, poor Papa.
All these thoughts were passing through my
mind, when he burst into the room. “Vera!” he shouted as he came through
the door, “How did she get hold of this photo? I asked
you never to mention this name in our house!” A moment
later, he added in a low voice, “I don’t know what
to expect tomorrow and how much I’ll be able to take. In
order not to betray anyone, I can’t know anything about
anybody. ” I was baffled by what he was talking about.
About fascists, of course. But how could he end up in a fascist
prison? I asked, “Are you afraid the fascists will come
here?” Papa looked at me, “Yes.” And he left
as quickly as he had come in.
They now say that those years saw the creation
of the “image
of the enemy.” Yes, and it was created ingeniously, it
permeated our entire consciousness and hindered us from seeing
and grasping things that today seem to be self-evident. But at
the same time the “enemy” was far away, and there
were not, and could not be, any enemies among the people we knew
personally. And that was the main fact in that life. But the
illusions came to an abrupt end one morning. Right there, immediately
ready to explode, was the first shell.
Everything started out normally. I got up,
ate some breakfast, dressed, and left the house with Papa. Our
routine was to leave the house together, stop at a newsstand,
buy a newspaper. Then Papa went his way and I went mine. And
that’s how it went
that day. Papa bought the paper, glancing at it as he walked
away and waved goodbye to me. Suddenly he stopped, ran toward
me, seized my arm, and, speechless, pointed to a few lines in
a bottom corner of the paper. Brief news item. Our finest Red
commanders had been shot for treason. I don’t remember
the text. My eyes fell on one name—Yakir—and everything
began to swim before me. Shot?.. Shot?!.. And what about his
son, my friend Petka?
Papa took my hand and led me back home. Once
home, I ran to the telephone. I was hoping that Petka would answer.
But nobody answered. I dialed and dialed—nothing! Then I started calling our
schoolmates. They, too, had tried calling Petya, with the same
results. We wondered where Petka could be? Is it possible?… We
knew for sure that he was no enemy. We had made plans to run
off to Spain together and even had a small cache of provisions
for the journey—canned goods, some rusks—hidden behind
some loose bricks beneath our gate. There was no doubt in our
minds that he, like us, was ready to lay down his life for the
homeland, for Stalin... But no sooner had I begun to think about
this puzzle, than Papa took the receiver from my hands and hung
it up. “Don’t make any more calls. You can’t
help him, and you might get us in big trouble.”
For the first time in my life I hated my father.
No—this
wasn’t my father. It was somebody else, some totally different
person. I quickly pulled myself together and left the house.
Without looking around, I headed straight for the Dnieper, toward
the park where the Yakirs’ house stood. Everything was
quiet and calm, as if nothing had happened. But I couldn’t
get to the house: a policeman appeared out of nowhere and turned
me back. I traced broader circles, hoping at least to catch a
remote glimpse of Petya and yell to him that I was there. But
Petya was nowhere to be seen. I tried just plain yelling into
the air, which succeeded in attracting our schoolmates. But we
didn’t see Petka that day.
Lying in bed that night, I thought about Iona
Emmanuilovich Yakir. I recalled his handsome face, his smart,
neat image, wonderfully attractive in his military uniform. I
remembered how he used to play with us in Kharkov, outside School
No. 36. Then I recalled how we vacationed with the whole family
near Sevastopol, in the Alsu settlement, along with the family
of Papa’s brother
Yosya Venger, who was then Vice Commander of the Black Sea Fleet.
(By now, Yosya’s fate was also sealed.)
On that occasion, Yosya arrived in a very happy
mood, saying, “Yakir
came on board. It was great dealing with an intelligent, knowledgeable,
and honest person.” Recalling all this, I got to thinking, “No,
not only Petka, but his father, too, could not be an enemy. Maybe
write a letter to Comrade Stalin? But then I realized: Yakir
was no longer alive. He’s already been shot. And, of course,
I cried.
In a couple of days rumors emerged among our
schoolmates that someone had actually seen Petya. He was allegedly
walking around a park carrying a long wooden switch with which
he was thrashing the bushes with broad sweeps, shouting, “I loved him, and
he was a traitor! I loved him!” I don’t know whether
it was true or not, but after that I pictured him that way, brandishing
the switch like a sword.
I never managed to get back to the park —I might as well
have been under house arrest. Papa escorted me to school every
day, right up to the door. And after school he or Mama was waiting
for me. This aroused in me a strange, ambivalent feeling of indignation
and pity. I loved and respected my parents very much, and it
was strange and painful to see them acting this way. But besides
that, I was offended—they could have talked with me, and
if I gave them my word to behave as they wanted, I would keep
my word.
Some time later another rumor arose among our
schoolmates: they knew the day that Petka and his mother were
reportedly going to be sent from Kiev by train, either to Astrakhan
or Arkhangelsk. I told my parents about it and announced my firm
intention to see them off. But they were firmly against it. On
the day that Petya was supposed to be sent away, they took me
to the theater.
At that time the Malyi Theatre was appearing
in Kiev. It was a major event, and I, naturally, was hoping to
attend its performances. That day they were performing Don
Carlos.
We were sitting in the box, and I kept looking at the clock,
imagining that the last minutes were slipping away. At the moment
when Princess Eboli made her entrance, I became violently ill
and began to vomit. I barely made it to the restroom. Papa rushed
after me.
I came out a few minutes later; my head was
swimming and I couldn’t
stand on my feet. Papa took me by the arm and said, “Let’s
go. We’ll still make it.” And I suddenly regained
strength. We hurried across Lenin Street and jumped on a trolley
that came along at that instant.
At the station we spent a long time looking
for a train going to Astrakhan or Arkhangelsk, and checked all
platforms and all trains departing near the scheduled time, just
in case. There was no trace of Petya anywhere. Slowly and sadly,
we walked homeward. And Papa said, “You were right. The most important thing
is to be faithful to one’s friends. Forgive me—it
won’t happen again.”
And it never did happen again. My father overcame
his fear. And the avalanche of arrests, exiles, and disappearances
struck with terrible force, and the times when one had to extend
a hand to someone in trouble became more and more frequent.
Some of the first were those who worked in
the General Staff. They picked up the parents of Ira Peterson
and Ira Rodionova. Both these girls were my schoolmates, though
in a class older than mine, and I hardly knew them, merely admired
them from afar. The first was tall, strong, with a typical Baltic
build and sharp in her movements. The second was small, a bit
thin, and elegant—she
was nicknamed “Parizhanka”: the Parisian girl. Both
of them, having been left alone, decided to go to Moscow to seek
justice. For some reason I don’t remember Ira Peterson’s
leaving, but I do remember seeing “Parizhanka” off.
We all tried to help her in any way we could. And Papa actively
helped me in doing that. Ira sold everything she had that had
not been confiscated, and used the money to buy two much-needed
items: a pair of smart fil de Perse stockings and a ticket to
Moscow. The whole school was there to see her off.
But Papa, of course, had his own friends who
needed help and support, and I saw that people were coming to
see him.
At about that time he crossed the Rubicon.
What did he know then about what was going
on? Probably a great deal. When I now start to recall, in minute
detail, certain actions or words of my parents, I see that even
back then I was able to understand quite a bit. But I was little
and gullible, and properly raised, and I perceived the things
I saw as right per se. But they were unsystematic; they remained
discrete impressions. They contradicted the overall world view,
the rock-solid view of what was going on in our country. And
they did not change that view.
At least one thing can be said with certainty:
Papa knew the methods used to obtain the “testimonies” of those
who disappeared into the nether chambers of our secret police.
He also knew that this cup would not pass him by. Knew? In any
case, he could guess.
The entire Lyubchenko family ended its existence—they simply
opened the gas jets and all “went to sleep,” including
the children. And they left a note making it clear that it was
no accident (at least that’s how people were telling the
tragic story in Kiev).
Papa knew Lyubchenko well; he had been one
of the city’s
leaders. My parents sat at the table, grown old, devastated.
They said nothing. I sat next to them, trying to understand why
these people had done what they did, and I didn’t understand.
Finally, Mama murmured, “Maybe what they did was right
for them, but why take the children with them?” I was stunned
by the phrase “take with them.” Take where? That
was probably the first real thought about death, about the fact
that people depart from life to go to death. And that the departure
is also an exit. Terrible, incomprehensible, yet possible.
“And what if they had spared them? Orphaned, alone, and with no assurance
that… Lyubchenko probably knew,” Papa also murmured his reply.
I wanted to ask what Lyubchenko could have known, but I didn’t say anything.
Eventually the arrests became a daily occurrence—the fathers
and mothers of my classmates disappeared, my parents’ friends
disappeared. More and more frequently one heard the famous Russian
phrase “If you cut down a forest, the chips must fly.” The
justifying phrase. The self-defense phrase.
All those who disappeared around us were certainly chips: a whole
mountain of chips had accumulated. But we never were able to
see the forest; it lay somewhere beyond the mountains, beyond
the seas, but, obviously, it was clearly visible from above.
Our turn was approaching.
But that still lay ahead. On the evening that
Papa and I were walking home from the railroad station, first
along Shevchenko Boulevard, then Lenin Street, past the Russian
Drama Theater, where they were still showing Don Carlos... both
of us felt that our wonderful life-long bond had been restored...
Many years later, when we finally met Petya
and I told him how that evening my parents had taken me to the
Malyi Theatre, he exclaimed, “They were performing Don
Carlos!” I was
flabbergasted. “How do you know that?” I asked. “They
were driving us along Lenin Street, and I saw the marquee. I
somehow felt an urge to go there.” I was amazed—almost
twenty years later he remembered that momentary event. And it
occurred to me that the horrible, sudden headache I suffered
that evening could well have coincided with the moment Petya
passed by in the police car.
By a strange coincidence, our first meeting
after Petya’s
return also took place in a theater. It was years later, and
we—Mama, my brother, Lyonka and I—were living in
Moscow.
Although it seems strange to mention it now,
I held a haughty disdain for light opera when I was young. Lyonka
also disliked it. Our dislike was actually purely theoretical,
because we never attended light opera, considering the genre
to be too lightweight, and we had an unclear idea of what it
was like. The ubiquitous medium of television did not yet exist
back then to enlighten us. So, one fine day, our curiosity got
the best of us, and Lyonka and I got tickets to the operetta
theater to see a performance of Silva.
Strolling in the lobby during intermission after the first act,
I got the feeling that someone was staring at me. I looked around.
Just to one side of the main stream of patrons stood a couple—a
young man with a small mustache and a narrow, intelligent face,
with dark, somehow familiar-looking eyes, and an elderly woman
with beautiful gray hair. I walked by once again, and again met
with the same curious look. I frantically tried to figure out
who they could be, but the answer wouldn’t come. It was
like sometimes happens in a dream. I asked Lyonka to take a look
at them, but he could not place them either.
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