6. INTERLUDE IN ALMA ATA

KOSTYA’S condition was steadily growing worse. As his Novosibirsk cold had turned into a serious case of flu with a high temperature and a great deal of coughing, we decided to leave the train at Alma Ata, the capital of Kazakhstan, which is one of the Central Asian Soviet republics. After a long explanation at the N.K.V.D. office in the railway station we were finally allowed into the city.

Alma Ata turned out to be a small and extremely attractive place. The part near the station had retained some of its ancient, exotic oriental qualities: narrow alleyways, single-story white houses with flat roofs, crowded small courtyards full of fruit trees, and impassable mud everywhere. There was.no snow. Water gurgled in small irrigation ditches along the roadsides.

These ditches also ran along the city’s principal streets, which were planted with tall poplars. The centre of the city was entirely new; three-quarters of Alma Ata was built after the Revolution. The houses were well constructed, and the Opera House, built in the Moorish style, was magnificent. The streets in the centre of the city were paved with asphalt. There were a lot of stores and a variety of goods was still available in them.

In other words, we were pleasantly surprised.

We went into a café and ordered ice cream, a luxury we had not seen for years. Kostya assured me that ice cream was good for the flu and he must have eaten at least a quart of it. It actually seemed to make him feel considerably better. Having wandered around the city and questioned several people about places to eat, we learned that there were only two large restaurants. We went to the one called the Kraikom Dining Room. It was excellent. There was a large hall with booths on the second floor, and a stage where an orchestra was playing ‘The Blue Handkerchief’. The restaurant was crowded, but after about half an hour we were able to get places at a table. Since we had eaten very little the last two days on the train, we ordered a large dinner and a bottle of wine. Then we began to look around.

A pretty girl was singing sentimental popular songs on the stage. The guests were obviously not from these parts. Except for two policemen by the cloakroom, there were no natives of the Mongolian type in sight.

Never in my life anywhere in the U.S.S.R. had I seen people with so much money as in Alma Ata during the war. Some did not bother to keep track of their money at all and spent it recklessly. Once in a crowded streetcar someone’s suitcase fell open and wads of large bills rolled out. I don’t know how much money there was. The owner couldn’t have retrieved more than half of it, but he didn’t look the least bit upset. He must have lost tens if not hundreds of thousands of rubles.

In Alma Ata I had occasion to notice another phenomenon wholly strange to me: anti-Semitism. Where I had happened to be before the war, there was almost none of it. It was strictly forbidden by law. People were put in prison for terms of three to five years just for using the word ‘kike’ instead of ‘Jew’. But this seldom happened. The ‘Jewish question’ didn’t exist. So I was astonished when, on our second day in Alma Ata, a group of Moscow students came up to the restaurant table where we were sitting with two others.

One of them addressed me. ‘Have you been sitting here long?’

‘About an hour.’ I shrugged my shoulders.

‘And this man?’ pointing to my neighbour.

‘I don’t know; he was here when we came,’ I answered.

‘Listen, friend, how long have you been here?’ The student addressed the man directly.

‘What business is it of yours?’ asked the latter angrily, in a voice with a Jewish accent.

‘Hey, I think you’re a kike! It’s our business because the likes of you sit here for days on end, while we have to wait an hour to get a table. Listen,’ he said to a passing waiter, ‘has this citizen eaten already?’

‘Yes, he’s eaten.’

‘Well then, get the hell out of here,’ the student shouted, ‘or we’ll throw you downstairs!’

‘What right have you to talk so?’ spluttered the man. ‘I’ll call the police!’

‘The police, eh?’ said a second student. ‘Come on, boys, grab him under the arms, we’ll show him the police!’ And they seized him by the arms and legs and carried him out of the room. Another student took his place.

I sat there, not knowing what to think or say. The people at the neighbouring tables had listened to the scene but no one had interfered. Kostya and I were afraid to do anything, as we had not yet received permission from the police to reside in Alma Ata and our documents, in general, were doubtful ones. But still I got up, went to the door, and looked down. The man who had been thrown out was talking heatedly to a policeman who was not even listening. The students came back and at several tables places were made ready for them immediately.

I asked the one sitting with us, ‘How can you make a scene like that? You can be put in jail for it.’

‘There’s a war on, and a lot of things can be done,’ he answered. ‘And these parasites should be destroyed. Why isn’t he in the army?’

‘Well, you don’t seem to be in the army either,’ I remarked.

‘I can be called up any day, but even if he gets in, he’ll be in the quartermasters or the medics. Stalin gave an order: no kikes are to be taken for soldiers. So they live here like kings. They stole a lot of money in Moscow during the panic and now they’ve become millionaires.’

The student was exaggerating when he talked about ‘millionaires’. I had seen Jews on the streets of Alma Ata from Bessarabia and Poland. You could recognize them by their dress and speech. But they were destitute. One could tell from their looks that they didn’t have even a few rubles for a meal, let alone millions.

Looking back now, I find it hard to explain these appearances of anti-Semitism. Usually the outbreaks ended in mere profanity and bad language, and there were very few fights. But the police took no measures whatsoever. This was absolutely new. I do not think that any Nazi influence was involved here. We all knew very little about the actual content of Nazi ideas; and in the Soviet Press there was not much mention of the anti-Semitic measures of Hitlerism. Perhaps the fact that more Jews than others were given permission to enter Central Asia was significant. Perhaps Stalin’s order which the student had mentioned (and which was actually given) antagonized the soldiers who were sent to the front. Or the widespread opinion that the Jews had got hold of more money than anyone else in the Moscow panic may have been a factor. It was hard for us to judge.

We were very careful not to get mixed up in any such incidents, knowing that inspection of our papers would end badly for us.

We lived in Alma Ata illegally. The first evening of our stay there, after an unsuccessful attempt to find a room, we persuaded the doorman of a restaurant to take us in for a substantial sum. After the restaurant closed we went to the other end of town, on the edge of the native quarter, where the doorman lived. His house consisted of two rooms with a hallway. In one room with a separate entrance lived two girls who always had company. Drunken sounds and singing were audible all night.

With the doorman lived his wife and daughter and a Spanish girl, Teresa, who spoke Russian very badly, one of the group of Spanish youth who had been brought to Russia in 1939, after Franco’s victory. The old doorman took me into his own bed. His wife and daughter slept together in the other. Kostya, being the sick one, was given a bed in the hallway, where Teresa slept on a trunk. In the succeeding days we tried to find another place to live, but it was hopeless. There were half a million people in the city whose normal population was 150,000. In addition to this, there was one advantage in living with the old man. He did not require us to go to the police for a residence permit. We knew that there was no chance of our getting permission to live in the capital of the Kazakh Republic. We remained in the old man’s clay house, in spite of all its discomforts.

Kostya still had the flu. Unlike other sick people he did not stay in bed but wandered about town every day, developing a passion for strong applejack. He even started a romance with Teresa. In other words, he showed no desire to get well. But we could not continue our journey, because his temperature was always above normal and we could not risk his having a serious illness while travelling.

At the end of the year the Germans captured Rostov. In a few weeks the way home might be cut off. I was beginning to get seriously worried. I tried everything to force Kostya to make an effort to cure his everlasting flu so that we could be on our way west. But he did not listen to me, and he would disappear until late at night, returning thoroughly drunk. Something or other was bothering him and he was trying to drown it in drink and romantic adventures.

The New Year, 1942, was drawing close. We agreed to spend New Year’s Eve together, in the small room of the old doorman. A light snow had fallen, but the weather was fine. In the morning we bought all the things we needed to celebrate the New Year. This was not easy. The food situation in Alma Ata was growing worse every day and prices had shot up in the three weeks that we had been there. In order to get pastry, which was sold only in the foyer of the Opera House, we went two nights running to see an opera in the Kazakh language. Kazakh operas alternated with Russian ones. This opera was so hard on one’s senses, the music so wild to the European ear, that it was all we could do to sit through the first act. Then we would run out to the foyer, buy our pastry, and hurry out of the theatre.

However, the Russian opera was excellent in Alma Ata. All 2,000 seats were always sold out, and I had to reserve tickets a week in advance. But there were only 100 to 150 people in the audience on the nights that the Kazakh operas were presented, and most of them had free tickets. The Kazakhs themselves preferred the Russian operas.

Only a few hours were left until the New Year, but Kostya was still missing. Teresa and I had waited for him for a long time. He had promised to come at six, and it was already eight, and no Kostya. I decided to go out and look for him, trying to remember the places where he might be.

On a dark side street I finally ran into Kostya. He was waving his arms and muttering to himself. He scarcely recognized me. I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the nearest streetcar stop. Breaththing heavily and staggering, he tried to tear himself from my grasp. His eyes moved around aimlessly and he continued to mumble. The heavy smell of vodka was everywhere.

At the car stop I sat him down on a bench, sat down opposite him, and kept my hands on him lightly. His eyes were completely senseless and he was smiling at something with an idiot’s smile.

Suddenly, not saying a word, he hit me on the head with his heavy fist. I went down in the snow. When I got up he was still grinning senselessly, looking at me triumphantly. I was very angry, but the streetcar was approaching so I pushed him into it and got on myself.

When we got to our stop I had to tear Kostya away from the streetcar straps. He didn’t want to get off. The conductor helped me. I shoved Kostya forward, and he staggered on, waving his hands weakly and showing a distinct tendency to fall into the nearest irrigation ditch.

When we got to a deserted spot I gave full vent to my irritation. My ear was still aching from his blow. I knocked him down with some difficulty, sat on his stomach, and began to hit him with a sort of evil joy. He tried to defend himself, giggling, but I was merciless and didn’t care where I hit him. Then I rubbed his face with snow and put some down his neck. He tried to make himself as small as possible. After this I put him on his feet and led him home.

Teresa was horror-stricken. Of course there could be no question of a New Year celebration for Kostya. We undressed him and put him to bed.

The doorman’s wife and daughter had gone out somewhere, and the old man had not yet returned from the restaurant, so Teresa and I greeted the New Year together. She was unhappy. Something in her had called forth memories of far-away Spain, which she had left three years ago. She recalled her native sunny Barcelona, battles with Franco’s troops, and her last days in Spain. In her very broken Russian she told me about her arrival in Moscow.

‘At first it was fun and fine. They greeted us with music and flowers. Then they gave us apartments and some of us went to the Crimea for a rest. After that there was nothing. We had to go into factories. The work was terribly hard. The director spotted me and gave me lighter work – but not for nothing.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Then another factory, another director. They are all the same.’

She began to cry. In a mixture of Russian and Spanish she complained through her sobs about her fate – how hard it was for a lone girl to live in a foreign country.

‘Why did I leave Spain? My mother is in Barcelona, and I had many friends there. Some of them are left. And now I’m in Russia, in Asia, among these nasty people. I’m almost a prostitute!’

Then she went to pieces completely. The shouts of our neighbours’ drunken guests and Kostya’s heroic snores did nothing to make her forget the thoughts that were torturing her. With great difficulty I managed to quiet her and persuade her to go to bed and forget her troubles on the eve of the New Year. She could scarcely understand me. I sat down beside her and stayed there, holding her tear-stained hand in mine, until she went to sleep.

The old man came home in a very gay state, and his wife and daughter showed up, too. The daughter had brought a boy friend with her, one of the local firemen. It was very late before we managed to get to sleep, finding ourselves places on the beds and on the floor.

Kostya was the last to wake up. He sat up in bed and inspected himself in the mirror for a long time. There were three large bruises on his face.

‘Where did I get these, Vladimir, do you know?’

‘I don’t know, old man,’ I answered. ‘I met you last night very drunk and well decorated.’

‘I don’t remember a damned thing about where I was or what I did. I went to Zina’s first.’ Zina was another of his girl friends. ‘I remember leaving her house. Then I went into a small restaurant. They were drinking something there. And that’s all I remember. How can I show myself in the street with a face like this?’

‘You can’t,’ I said quickly. ‘The police would spot you at once and ask for your papers.’

‘You’re right. I’ll have to stay home. My temperature is up again. I just took it. We’ve absolutely got to get a local residence permit. The old man has been pestering us about it and we might get into trouble any minute. Have you made any progress?’

I had tried to get a residence permit several times; but the police would only grant one if you had a certificate from the city soviet stating that you were allowed to stay in the city of Alma Ata. I could not get such a certificate in spite of the fact that the secretary of the city soviet, a nice young woman, treated me with extreme civility.

Kostya heard me out and then said, ‘You’re a fool and you don’t know anything. That girl has designs on you. I was going to tell you that a week ago. Test it out. Go there tomorrow and tell her you have no place to live. You’ll see, she’ll give you a certificate.’

It turned out that he was right. The next time I went to the city soviet I took Tonya home from work and said, ‘Tonya, what’ll we do? Kostya and I have no place to live any more.’

She showed immediate interest. ‘You mean you have no more money?’

‘No, we’ve got money, but the landlord doesn’t want to keep both of us any more.’

‘He’ll keep one of you?’

‘He’ll let one of us stay, but he demands a residence permit.’

Tonya squeezed my hand sympathetically and said, ‘We’ll have to think of something. I know. I can put one of you up temporarily at my place. I have two rooms and there are four of us – Mother, myself, and the two children. But we’ll fit you in somehow. Let’s go in and take a look.’

Tonya had two clean rooms, and two small children about four or five years old. They were locked in, as their grandmother was out working.

‘Here, look, we can put one of you up here,’ she said, pointing to two boxes standing in a corner. ‘It won’t cost much.’

We had dinner together and Tonya told me about herself.

‘I had a husband. He was called up right away and was lost in the second month of the war. One of his friends wrote me that he was probably killed. So I live alone with the children. The work isn’t bad. I can make out . . .’

Tonya was alluding to the material ‘gratitude’ of the countless people who wanted something from the city soviet.

‘But still, it’s dull.’ And she was lost in thought.

I stroked her hand.

‘Don’t be sad, Tonya. You are still young. The war will be over and you’ll live well again. Let’s go to the theatre this evening. I have tickets.’

Tonya cheered up. On the way to the theatre we decided that I would move into her apartment and she would arrange for both Kostya and me to receive a letter from the city soviet to the police about residence permits.

‘But only after you move in,’ she added half seriously.

During the show I kept trying to find a way out of the situation. I knew what Tonya was driving at, but I didn’t want to get caught in her matrimonial trap, although she was a nice girl and an attractive one. The thought of going west to my mother was still lodged firmly in my mind. Every delay was risky. At the same time, I did not want to leave Kostya and go on alone. That was extremely dangerous in those times. And Kostya was exaggerating his illness in order to stay in Alma Ata. The only thing to do was to stay too until I could get Kostya to leave.

It was late when Tonya and I got home after the theatre.

‘Why should you go home now?’ she said, not looking at me and speaking in a slightly trembling voice. ‘Spend the night here, since you’ve already decided to live with me.’ Her laugh was short and forced.

Everyone was asleep in the apartment. It was warm and quiet.

There was one thing more that I felt I should tell Tonya: who we were, where we were coming from, and what we had been. While I was telling her about the past years of my life I noticed that she answered me at rarer intervals. I did not know what she was thinking.

In the morning, when I was taking her to work, she stopped suddenly and said, ‘Don’t be angry with me. I’ll get you a letter from the city soviet, but – we’ll have to give up the idea of living together. I can’t take the risk. I’m afraid for you, too. I’ll see you tonight.’

We said goodbye and I went my way dejectedly. From one point of view it was a good way out. I hadn’t deceived Tonya and I hadn’t told her that I loved her (she probably would not have believed me anyway). And there would not be a false connection between two people who did not belong together. On the other hand Tonya’s words had hurt me. I had considered our relationship, if we were to have one, as well as her attraction to me as something serious. But as soon as she had learned of my six years at forced labour as a political prisoner she had dropped me as something frightening and dangerous. I was no different from what I had been before I told her, but my accursed past had come between us. What if I had been in love with Tonya? How would her change of attitude have affected me then?

In the evening she avoided my eyes. She gave me the letter which she had promised us, and tried to talk of other things. Apparently she was even unhappier about it than I. I rose to leave several times but she wouldn’t let me go, although she would not talk about our parting.

That night she cried several times.

When it began to grow light I got up and dressed quickly. Tonya woke up and called me over to her. She began to speak, holding my hands.

‘I guess fate hasn’t been kind to me. I knew that you wouldn’t stay with me long; we are too different. But I couldn’t help trying anyway. And now I’ve been punished. You would have left me anyway. I’m older than you are, and I’ve got two children. Why should you want to stay with me? You would have left, wouldn’t you?’ she kept asking, large tears flowing down her cheeks.

I stroked her head and didn’t think of myself any more, but only that she was much more unhappy than I. She was hoping for something. For a moment she believed something.

‘Perhaps we would have had to part. Tonya. They would have put me in the army. There’s the war, after all.’

‘Yes, the army,’ she repeated, as if trying to reassure herself. ‘But they don’t take people like you. They are afraid to give them weapons. I heard about it at the city soviet. Oh, well – I just don’t want you to think badly of me. I want you to understand me. I am a member of the party. I have a responsible job and a family. Sooner or later the N.K.V.D. would find out about your past. And then – then everything would be over anyway. No, it’s impossible! And we can’t see each other any more. Believe me, it will be harder for me than for you. But you know that anyway. And now, good-bye. Go.’

I walked along the streets of the city feeling miserable.

The next day I went to the passport desk of the district police and presented my letter and papers. I sat a long time waiting for a decision. People kept passing me. The official to whom I had given my papers came out of the chief’s office several times and looked at me strangely. There was a telephone conversation in the office and I was beginning to get worried. Then I was called in.

The chief received me standing, with my passport in his hand.

‘You are Petrov?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Are these your papers?’ He showed them to me.

‘Yes, sir.’ I took them hurriedly.

‘How long did you spend in the camps?’

‘Six years.’

‘For counterrevolution?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Do you know that you are forbidden to enter a number of localities, among which are the capitals of union republics?’

‘No, I didn’t know that.’

‘Well, now you do. Sit down and write.’

‘What?’

‘I’ll tell you what to write. Do as I say and keep quiet.’

I sat down at the desk and took up a pen. The chief began to dictate:

‘I, the undersigned, hereby attest that I am aware I do not have the right to live in a series of localities, as listed in Directive No. — of the Council of People’s Commissars, of—date, among which are the capitals of all union and autonomous republics, the principal cities of districts and regions and within a radius of 65 miles of each of these; that I am forbidden to approach the national boundaries of the U.S.S.R. and all seacoasts closer than 130 miles. I am also aware that in the event of my violation of this directive of the Council of People’s Commissars I am criminally liable under existing laws. I agree to leave the city of Alma Ata within twenty-four hours after 12 noon, 13th January 1942.’

‘Write your address and sign it,’ ordered the chief.

An hour later I was telling Kostya about it.

‘What do you think we should do?’ he asked.

‘I’ll go to Tashkent tomorrow, and on from there.’

‘I don’t think we should.’

‘Why not?’

‘I hear that on the other side of the Caspian all mobilized enterprises are run much more strictly than over here. As soon as we get to Baku they’ll mobilize us.’

‘Maybe so, but if we stay here they’ll be certain to arrest us and send us back to camp.’

‘Bunk! They haven’t got any system any more. The city is jammed and the police won’t touch us. Did you give our correct address?’

‘Of course not. But it’s not so hard to find us.’

‘I don’t agree. I’ve decided to stay and I advise you to do the same.’

‘No, Kostya, I’ve got to go. The Germans are practically certain to start another drive in the spring and I won’t get home.’

‘Well, do as you like. Maybe there’s some point in your going, but not me. My family is in Moscow, and if I go anywhere it will be there.’

‘And they’ll hand you right in. You know you can’t enter Moscow.’

‘To hell with the law!’ Kostya was irritated. ‘What do we have to be afraid of after the Kolyma?’

And so we parted. The next day I took the train to Tashkent. Kostya remained in Alma Ata. Six years later, in the United States, I learned that he got into the army after all, fought over an immense amount of territory, and had all sorts of adventures. After the war he deserted and he is now in Western Germany.