Yuri Druzhnikov
Angels on the Head of a Pin
Chapter from the Novel: A new Deputy Editor was suddenly appointed to the Moscow newspaper Trudovaya Pravda. His past was intriguing
Chapter 18. This is How High You've Flown!
Stephan Yagubov, although short-statured, looked like an athlete, and appeared considerably younger than his forty-eight years. He looked after himself, shaving meticulously and with pleasure morning and evening (in the morning for himself, at night for his wife), took exercise twice a week, even after a night shift, swimming in the Ministry of Defence pool. He never got sick, never caught cold. Vacationing in the autumn at the Central Committee seaside health spa in Riga, he wouldn't swim in the pool — he swam in the icy Baltic — and, easy-peasy: never a twinge of rheumatism, never a head cold. Whenever anyone complained of a headache, he would sympathetically — even sincerely — ask: 'What's it like, then?' His head, its neatly trimmed black mane without a single white hair, had never ached even once in his life. Whenever it was necessary, he drank exactly as much as everyone else, so that nobody would think that he was just pretending to drink, but he never drank too much.
Editor-in-Chief Makartsev chuckled at that: 'Are you off to join the ranks of the righteous, Yagubov?'
Yagubov smiled politely, trying the while not to look askance at the editor's large paunch. His own father, Trofim Yagubov, had never known what his father's first name was. In the well-to-do Cossack town of Nagutskaya, he'd had no kinsfolk and was considered a stranger, even though he couldn't complain about his land, or his house. He was a dry, laconic man, and he got around on a crutch: his leg had been broken under the wheel of a cart, and the bones had never knitted properly. The Yagubovs were fairly well off. They'd had three children to begin with, but then they'd had to bury two of them in an epidemic. Trofim Yagubov hadn't wanted to be eliminated with the rich peasants, the kulaks. So he'd signed up on a collective farm, joined the Party, and helped in the process of collectivization. Those of their neighbours who were left alive after the collectivization were afraid of Trofim Yagubov and would start bowing from afar. His family had starved, too, in the famine. Yagubov himself, when he'd grown enough, helped his father in everything. He took pride in telling about the times his father, an old man already, would say: 'The Party commanded — Trofim answered, "Yes, sir!"'
But to ascend to his present height, the decisive factor for Yagubov turned out to be not his splendid upbringing, nor even the qualities instilled in him, but how tall he was. Or wasn't.
Yagubov had suffered since childhood from the fact that he'd been endowed with a height of just four feet and nine inches. Although he would always respond to gibes with the standard 'Little man, big dick,' it was still painful to endure the taunts of his comrades, and he wore shoes with thick soles that he'd tacked on himself, but it didn't help very much.
After finishing high school, Yagubov, sharp in mind and quick on the uptake, managed to procure the necessary document and left the collective farm. In Moscow he'd entered the Aviation Institute. But he'd got kicked out after his first year: he failed to get a 'satisfactory' grade in any single subject except Party history, something that his father would read aloud in the evening at home. His paternal uncle, who had managed to become somebody, helped Yagubov get a job as a policeman on point duty. If it hadn't been for his uncle's pressure and connections, they would never have taken someone as short as him for anything. Yagubov then moved on to a job with the NKVD.
Standing his post as a policeman, Yagubov had stopped feeling himself inadequate. On the contrary, he came to acquire a sense of his superiority over the people that he could order around. They were just citizens — he represented Soviet power. If he felt like it, he could stop them, check their papers, even haul them off to the station, if he felt like it. Everyone except his superiors were obliged to respect him, but even his superiors did, too, because he respected them. Contrary to all possibility, he had all the qualities necessary to grow, and he was ready to grow.
Yagubov never suspected that his height (all those four feet, nine inches) was registered in a special card-catalogue. As an A-student in Communist political studies, Yagubov was sent to an academy in the Moscow suburbs, after an additional test. The cadets there were taught to shoot pistols at moving human silhouettes and to speak English and German. Moreover, Yagubov completed around sixty parachute jumps, teasing the comrades of his who turned pale as soon as the plane had barely started to climb. Soon Yagubov found out that the courses were being run by a different department of the NKVD — the GUGB, the Chief Directorate of State Security. However, the fact that they were all being taught in one bunch, and not singly at secret hideaways, foretold that Yagubov was not being trained to be an intelligence agent, as he'd been dreaming of.
The cadets felt nothing of the war. Life flowed by at a measured pace, interrupted only for field exercises. Those exercises consisted of the cadets being sent to guard special sites or taking measures for the liquidation or resettlement of inimically-inclined ethnic minorities. Thus, Yagubov and his comrades evicted the Germans that he'd hated since childhood from their Volga homesteads. Shoving the crowd of women with their howling children and old folks, the cadets filled the covered trucks with them, freeing up their homes for genuine Soviet people.
A framed portrait of Stalin stood constantly on the nightstand next to Yagubov's bed in their hostel. On one occasion, the whole academy was roused and taken to an airfield. On the field stood two airplanes whose engines, they said, were working around the clock. A rumour went around that Stalin himself was going to be evacuated by air to the east. The cadets were kept in a cordon-sanitaire around the planes for about three hours, then were assembled and taken away. They said that Stalin had flown off from a different airfield. But later it became known that the Leader had stayed behind in Moscow. Yagubov was hoping that the academy would be lined up in a November 7th or May 1st parade. He would see Comrade Stalin right away. The Greatest Leader of All Times and Peoples would be taller than anyone else standing on the balcony of Lenin's tomb. And that surmise of his corresponded to reality.
For Stalin, who was five feet, two inches tall, they had set up a stool upholstered in multilayered carpeting, with two short banisters on either side, so that he wouldn't fall over right there on the balcony. Stalin was bothered by a height-complex larger than Yagubov's, just because he was Stalin. Any newspaper photographs that showed the people around him taller than the Leader of the World Proletariat were doctored in TASS, the Soviet press agency, in accordance with an unwritten rule that Comrade Stalin had to be shown that little bit taller than anyone else. The seams where the films were sliced and repositioned were carefully retouched. Stalin couldn't bear it if any of his servants were taller than him. Therefore, since the time of the Latvian commander of his personal bodyguard, Salpeter, who was imprisoned in 1938, Stalin had maintained a system of selecting bodyguards — and secretaries, cooks, waiters, bath attendants, gardeners, drivers, and all the rest of his retinue — who were no more than five foot, one inch in height. Comrade Stalin decided himself what to do with companions-in-arms of his who were taller than he was.
Meanwhile, among Yagubov's teachers there appeared an ever-smiling and impeccably-dressed man with a moustache shaved down to his upper lip, and a bow tie.
'Let's say you can call me Kudrevatykh.'
The cadets smiled: Kudrevatykh was bald, unlike his name, which meant 'curly.' They heard that this was the former Soviet agent-in-residence in Berlin. He'd been working as a waiter in a restaurant that was frequented by personages of the Reich, but his cover had been blown, and he'd managed get back home. Kudrevatykh taught them etiquette, taught them how to set a three-crystal and a seven-crystal table. He also showed them how best to listen to what the guests were saying, standing half turned away and showing a deliberately indifferent expression on your face. The cadets could only guess at where and for what they were being prepared.
Unexpectedly, an order was read out for them to be given the rank of junior lieutenants and issued new uniforms: black vests with black trousers, snow-white dickeys, and bow ties. When the pupils had changed into their new uniforms and were once again lined up, they were acquainted with their task: to wait on foreigners at a government reception. They were supposed to smile and pretend that they didn't understand a thing. In case of any difficulty, they were to call on the maitre d'hotel, who would interpret for them and go away again. Their task entailed listening to what the foreigners were saying among themselves, going out to the kitchen, and quickly and precisely relating it all without omitting any details to the maitre d'hotel, a lieutenant colonel, the head of the waiters' group. The guests were to be referred to by number.
Their bus, with curtained windows that they were forbidden to open, drove into Moscow. But they could see a little something, anyway, whenever the bus braked and the curtains rocked back and forth: the glass on the buildings all paper-taped crossways, sandbags at shop windows, and anti-aircraft batteries. The bus drove up to some gates, and the curtains rocked. Yagubov instantly figured out that they were being taken into the Kremlin. The cadet's heart beat joyfully: This is how high you've flown, Yagubov! If only the village girls could see you now. Yagubov glanced sideways at his neighbours. They were sitting with stern faces, looking straight ahead, just as the drill manual required them to. Yagubov looked straight ahead, too.
The reception got under way. Yagubov meticulously carried out his work, standing behind No.14, a fat Englishman, the new press attaché, who looked more like a juggler that Yagubov had seen at the circus as a boy. The Englishman nattered away to the American next to him, all sorts of nonsense about women, but wasn't in any hurry to reveal any state secrets. Suddenly a wave of excitement swept through the hall, and everyone stood. Yagubov hadn't been warned how to behave in a circumstance like this, and he asked his neighbour, the one waiting on No.15, the American, in a whisper: 'Petya, why are they standing up?'
'Blockhead! Can't you see — Stalin?!' The great man, accompanied by his comrades-in-arms, walked along, his right hand between the buttons of his jacket, his thumb sticking out. With his left hand, every now and then he stroked the medals on the breast of his new tunic, with the gleaming brightness of its gold shoulder-boards. Yagubov had seen Stalin only in portraits, and he was surprised to see how now, in real life, he was in trousers, instead of riding breeches and boots.
Stalin had in truth worn boots his entire life, from early on, and didn't recognize any other footwear. Because of that, a considerable percentage of the planned output of footwear from factories in the country was boots. The leader's feet had been accustomed to such slavery, and endured it for years. And then they suddenly gave up. The second and third toes on his left foot, congenitally joined, hurt in particular. Doctors had long discussed the causes of the pain, and they carefully recommended that, in order to avoid thrombophlebitis, he wear lighter footwear, so that his extremities could breathe.
Special shoes were cobbled together for Stalin, made of leather from Swanetia, in his native Georgia. They were cobbled on Stalin's boot lasts, as always with high heels, only with tops like shoes, without laces, but with stretchy rubber on the sides. Stalin asked them to take newsreel footage of him so he could see what he looked like in his trousers and new shoes. The film pleased him, and its destruction was ordered. On January 17, 1943, an order for the introduction of a new army uniform was issued — tunics and trousers.
Today Stalin was going to a reception wearing shoes for the first time. It seemed to him that, without boots, he lacked confidence in the absolute rightness of every step that he took. He understood that he was the only one feeling this way; his comrades-in-arms had no suspicion of the trauma in his soul. They were thinking that the Leader was simply the first to set a new example. Nobody else could change the places of cause and effect as skilfully as he could.
From that day onwards, in millions of photographs and portraits distributed throughout the world by TASS, Stalin would be wearing his service jacket and trousers. It goes without saying that shoes and trousers were worn thereafter by police, railworkers, prosecutors, aviators, and miners instead of boots and riding breeches. The country made itself over in the image of the Leader. All that was to come later, but today Stalin was praying to God that nobody in the world would guess the reason for his changing from boots to shoes. The enemies of the Party were just waiting for him to get sick somehow. He wasn't going to let himself weaken. He was thinking of the People, who needed to be saved. He had to get manufactured goods from the West, military equipment, to talk them into opening a second front, to scare them with the fact that he could capture all of Europe, if victory was his alone.
Stalin passed so close to Yagubov that he could have touched him. Yagubov noticed that his torso was short and narrow, and his arms were too long. His teeth were uneven and bad. Stalin was afraid of tooth pain, and never had them looked after. By the time war came, he'd grown a large stomach — he ate a lot, but didn't get around much. His hair had got thin, and his cheeks flaccid — his face had an indoor-Kremlin colouring, from his night-time perch in his various offices and boardrooms. Yagubov exulted. Stalin turned out to be not that much taller than he was! The Great Leader was sitting across from Yagubov's press attaché, No.14. A waiter he hadn't seen before stood behind Stalin's chair. Stalin pointed a finger at his wine glass, and it got instantly filled with dry wine.
'Cold water, please,' his No.14 Englishman said, in English, of course.
Yagubov stood rooted, under Stalin's spell.
'Water! Pour him some water!' whispered the maitre d'hotel, appearing out of God alone knew where.
Only then did Yagubov catch on. He grabbed a bottle of mineral water, wrapped it in a white napkin, and poured half a glass for the Englishman, who nodded and drank it down.
'Did you notice, my good friend,' whispered Englishman No.14 to American No.15, 'how Russians get struck dumb whenever they see Stalin? He hypnotizes them with his dyed moustache. Look at that fool of a waiter!'
You scum, you god-damned imperialist, thought Yagubov offendedly. He thinks I don't understand English. I'll get you, you vermin!
Stalin was stooped slightly to one side (his left arm and shoulder had been slow to respond ever since a childhood accident); he coughed and stood up with his glass in hand. Yagubov sprang to attention. But the maitre d. touched his elbow and commanded Yagubov to follow him into the kitchen. 'Well, what?' he asked, along the way.
Yagubov decided to add a little colour to it, to get revenge on the English imperialist. 'Number Fourteen spoke in a manner critical of Comrade Stalin…'
'That information is unnecessary,' the maitre d. answered drily, glancing to one side. 'He didn't reveal any facts or figures?'
'Not yet,' answered Yagubov, sensing that he'd made a false step, and, in order to set things right, asked: 'Any new instructions?'
'Put his main course on your tray!'
He came back into the hall just as everyone applauded. Stalin was calmly listening to the foreigners, puffing on his Dunhill pipe. Suddenly he turned his tenacious little eyes on the English press attaché and asked: 'And you, sir: what are you drinking?'
'Mineral water,' Englishman No.14 answered him in Russian. 'But now, perhaps, I'll try some brandy…'
'Brandy?' Stalin thought it over. 'Armenian or Georgian?' And he once again gazed fixedly at the Englishman, penetrating into his thoughts. The man didn't know what to answer, and smiled guiltily.
'Although I'm a Georgian,' said Stalin, 'Armenian brandy is better. As you can see, ethnic rivalries don't exist among Communists. For example, all of us, the Soviet people, love Soviet champagne from the Crimea.'
It crossed the press attaché's mind that he might have been placing too much trust in his English newspapers. Stalin was, in reality, much more democratic, and his face in no way as strongly disfigured by smallpox scars as they wrote in the West. He would have to tell that to the journalists.
And Stalin meanwhile continued: 'We consider the best of all to be champagne from Crimean vaults, bottled at the end of the last century by Greek winemakers for the Russian aristocracy. Now it is drunk by the working class and the labouring peasants. You drink it, too; don't be shy!'
Stalin indicated the bottle with his eyes and snapped his fingers. Yagubov and two other waiters leaped to carry out the order. Yagubov was the quickest off the mark. He got to the bottle first and was already about to pour some into Stalin's glass. But Stalin pointed at the Englishman's glass. By the time Yagubov had poured and turned back to him, Stalin's waiter was already holding another bottle just like it in his hands. He poured a swallow into a little shot glass, drank it, and then poured Stalin some.
The champagne tickled the nostrils of the Englishman; it seemed uncloying and light. He didn't even put his glass back down on the table, but held it out for Yagubov to pour him some more without looking around. Yagubov was standing sideways, as he had been taught, the better to hear the dinner conversation. Thinking quickly, he grabbed the glass, but either he wasn't holding it firmly enough, or the Englishman let go of it early. The goblet fell to the carpet.
Yagubov looked around the diners out of the corner of his eye to see if anybody had noticed his blunder, and kicked the glass under the table with the toe of his shoe. He quickly snatched a clean glass from the tray and poured champagne into it. The Englishman sipped a bit and, addressing Stalin, praised the Crimean wine and the taste of ordinary Soviet people, who knew what to drink.
'I told you so!' observed Stalin with satisfaction, and stroked his moustache with his thumb.
When Beria was briefing Stalin the following day on what the diplomats had been talking about among themselves, Stalin drew something in a notebook. Beria craned his neck and saw that Stalin was drawing a football.
Suddenly he interrupted Beria in Georgian: 'By the way, what's the name of that footballer?'
'From which team?'
'Don't turn away, look me in the eye. You're getting absent-minded lately.' Stalin picked up his pipe from the desk, poked down the dottle with his finger, fired up his lighter, and puffed away. 'What's the name of that soccer player who passed the glass underneath the table?'
It turned out that nobody had noticed a thing. But Stalin loved startling people with his powers of observation. Beria told him the man's name a little later over the phone.
'I have to note that this Yagubov is useless as a waiter,' Stalin said. 'Far too nervous. Maybe he's too handy for this sort of work, eh?'
'We'll get rid of him.'
'You surprise me! I know without you telling me that you're going to get rid of him. I've been worried for a long time about how easy it is for you to get rid of people. People — those are our personnel.'
Beria could hear Stalin smacking his lips on the other end, relighting his pipe.
'Here's what,' Stalin advised. 'Give the footballer a job that fits his profile.'
Beria, screwing up his face, recalled the bloodthirsty dwarf Yezhov, who'd been found by Stalin himself in the provinces and promoted to the top. In general, Stalin seemed to like going by the proverb, 'Taken from the slough-mud, made into a blue-blood.' That meant that he wasn't interested in Yagubov by chance. So he'd have to be careful with this boy. General Chernov, the head of Beria's chancellery, received a directive, and Yagubov was made one of the directors of the NKVD stadium, Dinamo. The next day he'd already got down to business: standing in front of Yagubov, who was sitting in his chair, his predecessor told Yagubov what his duties were. The former director was sent off to the front. There wasn't much work for the new director to do. The gyms and dressing rooms underneath the stadium stands were all occupied. A school had been set up in them to train saboteurs to be dropped in the enemy's rear. The school was under the command of other people.
Stalin never remembered this particular joke, although in general he loved to check out the results of his jokes from time to time. The Leader was distracted by the construction of an underground tunnel, down which he could drive from his house in Kuntsevo into the Kremlin. The regular metro builders completed the tunnel. Stalin inspected his new route, but it seemed to him that he could smother inside the tunnel, if a cave-in ever happened, whether accidentally or on purpose. He thought about it a little longer, and then issued a directive for the tunnel to be used as a metro line. The newspapers wrote stories about the Great Leader's latest concern for the well-being of the people.
So Yagubov never did find out who it was who had ever-so-slightly manipulated his fate. All the other people who'd been involved in getting him his job were later executed, but not because of Yagubov, of course. In his position as stadium director, Yagubov didn't just get a taste for being kowtowed to. He became a member of the nomenklatura, the high and mighty. He soon became acquainted with Nina, the daughter of a Central Committee department head. Nina had come to the Dinamo stadium to play tennis. She wasn't that much taller than Yagubov. Yagubov set up a special regime for her, assigning her his best personal trainer. He came himself to observe how Nina's training was going, and in the process of observation got interested in her. Sometime later he succeeded in getting into Nina's pants, which made marrying her all the easier.
His father in law, after squaring the matter with Beria and the Central Committee propaganda department, managed to get Yagubov a transfer: from being one of the directors of the stadium, he was now sent over to bolster the newspaper Sovietsky Sport. Yagubov had already graduated from the Higher Party School by this time. That was how Yagubov was made into a journalist. Now he had the opportunity to explain to the broad masses that sport was a Party matter, a political matter, a mighty means of instilling Soviet patriotism. Sport could also ideologically strengthen the multimillion-strong army of sports fans. Yagubov's father-in-law was pensioned off. He tried to press some advice onto Yagubov about how to behave with superiors and subordinates, but Yagubov cut him off, clapping him on the shoulder with a smile.
'Your old-fashioned methods won't do, pops. People who know how to work are what's needed, not blather. Look how many mistakes you've made — so you just hush up, now!'
But Yagubov himself was hanging by a thread. Among some others being sent further away from Moscow at Beria's behest, just in case, Yagubov wound up working in Hungary. This decision of Beria's killed two birds with one stone. He was sending away people who'd been in favour under Stalin, in order to show that he himself had been against Stalin. But he was shifting away these experienced personnel in such a way that, as soon as the situation changed in his favour, he could bring them back quick as a flash.
The thirty-three-year-young stud Yagubov arrived at the USSR embassy in Hungary and swam into Ambassador Kegelbanov's ken as the embassy's second secretary. His wife stayed behind in Moscow with her parents. Yagubov hastened to cheer Kegelbanov up: 'Hey, you and I are zemlyaki — we're from the same neck of the woods!'
Kegelbanov had already familiarized himself with his new employee's personal file. He couldn't help but appreciate the businesslike character and expeditiousness of his second secretary. Yagubov's job was to keep an eye on the embassy employees and on Soviet citizens there on business: engineers, athletes, artistes, Party and Young Communist League officials. He'd had some modest experience in this sphere: he knew how to eavesdrop half turned away. Ambassador Kegelbanov was extremely punctilious with Yagubov, and not because they'd been born in the same village. He knew that his countryman was watching him, too, and as a zemlyak would know more than anyone else. Understanding this, Yagubov hastened to prove to the ambassador by his deeds that, quite the contrary, he could appreciate the care he lavished on Yagubov, and would never rat on him.
By the time Beria was executed, Yagubov was already feeling himself to be a Kegelbanov man. And he wasn't mistaken: on the list of State Security agents secretly awarded medals for skilful leadership in the suppression of the counter-revolution in Budapest in 1956, Kegelbanov topped the list and Yagubov was at the bottom of it. Soon afterwards, Ambassador Kegelbanov — his hands covered with blood, according to Western newspapers — had to be withdrawn from Hungary. Yagubov occupied himself with more modest affairs, and night-time ones, at that. He was in charge of clearing the corpses from the streets. Western newspapers didn't write anything about him. He stayed behind to serve at the embassy, though he did dream of going back to Moscow, too.
Yagubov's father-in-law was in retirement, strolling about at his dacha. That dacha wasn't very far from Khrushchev's, though, and they became friends. He told Khrushchev that his daughter was pining for her husband. The purge of the Party apparatus that was so necessary to Khrushchev was proceeding with difficulty. He needed some people of his own. Khrushchev phoned Kegelbanov to find out who this Yagubov was — the name seemed somehow familiar. Kegelbanov was by this time heading a department at the Central Committee, and reminded Khrushchev about the list of people honoured for their role in Hungary.
'I remember,' said Khrushchev. 'But what sort of fellow is he?'
'He's proved himself by his deeds. He's one of ours!' concluded Kegelbanov, who needed his own people, too.
Three days later, Yagubov had been called back 'for transfer to another position' and had landed in Moscow. There, the old Bureau of Information was being re-organized into the Novosti press agency. Khrushchev included his son-in-law Adzhubey on the administrative staff, and Yagubov, too. At Novosti, Yagubov got to show off his experience as an organizer. The Novosti press began distributing propagandizing literature for free. Under the direction of various Soviet embassies, Novosti offices were set up at sites throughout the world, staffed by KGB delegates and selected local Communists.
Yagubov's having been abroad — even if it was just Hungary — and his high-level work couldn't help but change his outward appearance and range of interests. A certain bumpkinishness in him disappeared entirely. His understanding of life deepened. He dressed modestly and well, was a pleasant conversationalist, had a sense of humour, and knew just when to stop. He never made any errors over whom to call personally and whom to talk to through their secretary, and what tone of voice to talk to them in. He became a character whose opinion of himself and whose real achievements, though not completely equivalent, were close, nonetheless. He could understand that his further growth depended on the results of his propaganda efforts only indirectly — but directly on his mutual relations with his superiors. Yagubov even had his own subordinates, dedicated to him. His children were growing up healthy and obedient, and were doing well at school. His wife didn't work very much after graduating from the Institute of Physical Culture, but she did play tennis with their children, with pleasure. He loved his children, played with them at night, and in the summer sent them off to the old folks in the Kuban with his wife so that they would get the habit of labour from childhood. In a word, Yagubov had good grounds to consider that everything in his life was coming together unsurpassably well.
The only thing that grieved him was his hastiness, probably arising from his small stature. He spoke and walked too quickly. Haste diminished his dignity. He was having to stop himself, make pauses, and only then speak and move slower, without any fuss, in accordance with his present position. And it occurred to him more and more frequently that it was time to make a new leap. Had they forgotten about him?
When Czechoslovakia came up, it would have been the best thing to send Kegelbanov there right away as ambassador, him having such huge experience in the similar situation in Hungary. But that would have provoked an undesirable reaction. The Politburo had appointed Kegelbanov chairman of the KGB, and the prophylactic measures being taken in Prague were organized under his command from Moscow. Kegelbanov had need of additional personnel. The list of people awarded medals in Hungary was lying in front of him on his desk. Kegelbanov was assessing not only his comrades' work experience in Hungary, but also their work afterwards — after all, twelve years had gone by.
Kegelbanov's assistant, Shamayev, rang Yagubov — with whom he'd been on personal terms in Hungary — and warned him that he might be needed.
'Always ready!' Yagubov answered with the Pioneer greeting, simply and even happily, rising slightly out of his seat.
'You're not going on vacation?'
'That'll depend on what my orders are.'
'Then you'll have to put off your vacation for a bit.'
'Yes, sir,' he answered, not guessing what was in store for him.
The events played themselves out, and they managed to get along at the Lubyanka without him. Incidentally, Yagubov had never liked saying 'the Lubyanka.' He usually just said 'the apparatus,' in a businesslike and modest fashion. On the morning of August 21, Yagubov heard over the radio the TASS bulletin about extending urgent fraternal assistance to the Czechoslovak people.
Shamayev called him again and told him to drive down to Nogina Square and park near the Chinatown wall. Yagubov had scarcely driven up when a man stepped up to him and asked him to get into another car, one with curtains. Five minutes later, the car dived into the chief building of 'the apparatus,' through the gates around from the square. They went silently up to the third floor in the lift and walked down a long, deserted corridor with light-green walls. Guards stood in every corner. Yagubov didn't ask a thing. He saw the plaque reading 'Chairman' as they went through the door.
In an immense anteroom, behind an enormous desk with multicoloured telephones on it, sat an elderly clerk in a major's uniform. Yagubov's escort disappeared. On the control panel a red light came on. The clerk silently got up and opened the door. Far down the spacious office, its redwood-panelled walls hung with oriental carpets since Beria's day, Yagubov saw the familiar face with its gold-rimmed spectacles, behind the desk. The office's owner straightened his cuffs. Kegelbanov had gone grey, his hair was thinner, his glasses didn't conceal the bags under his eyes. He got up and said hello reservedly, inquiring into Yagubov's health. Yagubov, as indicated before, was always healthy. The thought flashed through Yagubov's mind that he was going to be sent to Czechoslovakia for the kind of prophylactic work that he'd coped with so successfully in Hungary. But then it occurred to him at once: since they had brought him straight to 'the apparatus,' they weren't about to send him abroad.
'I recommended you, Comrade Yagubov,' said Kegelbanov, looking him straight in the eye, 'for the preparation of an appeal for assistance from a group of members of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia, the government, and the national assembly of the Czechoslovakian Socialist Republic. As you know, that assistance was already given, last night.'
'I'm aware of that,' nodded Yagubov, even though he wasn't completely in the know. 'When do I get to it?'
'Right now.' Kegelbanov pushed a button, and when the elderly major appeared at the door, standing at attention, he added: 'Give him the material.'
'One little thing,' Yagubov said, guiltily, waiting until the major had gone. 'I don't speak Czech.'
'I know.' Yagubov felt the irony in Kegelbanov's voice. 'I think we'll be able to find a translator. Sit down and get to work.'
The chairman unlocked his secret side-door and left. Yagubov shifted his weight from foot to foot, not daring to sit behind the chairman's desk, with its six telephones. He hunched down next to it, at the long green-baize-covered conference table. A portrait of Dzerzhinsky stared fixedly at Yagubov. The sunlight was blinding, reflecting onto the ceiling in long rectangles from the windows, making him squint.
Even in his excitement, Yagubov didn't lose his ability to reason. He didn't think about why such a responsible mission had fallen to his lot, specifically. He didn't doubt his own irreplaceability. He knew how to work effectively. Back in Budapest, Yagubov hadn't let his soldiers sleep, urging on the trucks, and by dawn all the corpses had been loaded up, taken away, and buried in pits. They'd even managed to wash down the streets. Yagubov himself hadn't got any sleep, either, driving in his jeep from Buda to Pest and back again, even though they were still shooting from the windows. No, the issue wasn't just his effectiveness: the important thing now was that he was a journalist, too. But surely Kegelbanov had a lot of personnel who were capable of carrying out tasks like this? It was also important that he, Yagubov, be outside the loop. Kegelbanov's man, but, at the same time, not his man. Reliable, but not from the apparatus itself. The decision to bring in him in particular was not only logical, but the only correct one. He never suffered any doubts, not Yagubov! But even that was a bonus: once he'd convinced himself of it, he always carried out the work even more steadfastly.
The major brought in bound copies of Pravda for the month of July and half of August of the present year, 1968. Yagubov moved a pad of blank paper closer to him. His task was complicated by the fact that he'd never written a thing in his life, if you didn't count dictation in school. He hadn't even tried. Everything that he needed was written for him, at his command. He was capable of a lot more than mere writing: he knew what was supposed to be written, and why. He could create a multitude of articles simultaneously, fill in the text of entire newspapers, publish dozens of books. To write for himself was as awkward as having to sweep up his own office. Lackeys were on hand to do the writing.
Yagubov sighed and started leafing through Pravda. Czechoslovakia had disappeared from the pages of the newspaper in July. They were afraid of the decisions reached by the Extraordinary Session of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia and were trying to talk them out of it. They had asked Dubcek nicely to come to Moscow, but then they'd had to go see him in Cerna-on-Tissa themselves. What kind of a Communist was this Dubcek, to be harbouring doubts? What were they hinting at, these Czechs, talking about socialism with a human face? It had got to the point where they'd opened their borders up, and people were free to come and go as they wanted! Communists, and behaving like children! And here was what Yagubov needed right now: a letter from the Czechoslovakian workers at the Avto-Praga factory — a facsimile with ninety-nine signatures. There'd be no such facsimile at the bottom of his letter. There, that's the important thing: 'The holy duty of every Communist' — a theoretical article. The fundament of the Czechs' massive appeal to us.
Yagubov remembered everything he was looking at, but continued to page through Pravda up to the last issue, to the TASS announcement. The Party and governmental leaders of the Czechoslovakian Socialist Republic, it said in it, appealed to the Soviet Union and other allied states… They've already appealed, and here the text of the appeal hasn't been prepared yet — there's a cock-up for you! Now the important thing is to get started. Suddenly the salutation of it flooded into his mind by itself: 'Brothers and Sisters!'
He liked that sort of beginning. That was the way Stalin had addressed the people at the start of the war. Afterwards, when Yagubov opened Pravda, he saw that they'd rewritten his salutation to 'Men and Women!' But he stuck to his opinion, anyway, that it was better written in Stalin's version and in his.
But while he was doing it he sensed the he shouldn't bear down on the politics of it: he had to play on the national pride of the Czechs. They had to be talked into it politely, without force, so that they would be deciding, as it were, independently. The more so, since the troops had already been sent in and there was nothing to worry about in that regard. 'We appeal to you, dear citizens,' Yagubov continued to write. He approached ready-made formulae with a certain creativity. 'The ire and indignation of the entire Soviet people,' 'crazed mercenaries,' 'instigators,' 'revanchists,' 'a wild outburst of reaction,' — he threw them all out, choosing softer words, just preserving a firm Party standpoint. After the first agonizing attempts, the writing got easier, his pen gliding over the paper. His writing done, Yagubov called in the major and said that he needed a typist. 'One who can spell!' he added.
The major nodded and went off, and after a moment came back in with a typewriter in his hands. He clattered away like a real machine gun, and soon the text was lying on the table. On top was written: 'Not for distribution out of this office.' The very same escort took Yagubov out through the gates. When Yagubov transferred into the waiting Volga, his chauffeur had merely shrugged a shoulder.
'You tired, eh?' asked Yagubov. 'Never mind! The human being is a hardy creature.'
Yagubov was in a festive mood. He'd taken part, to put it into newspaper language, in the salvation of a socialist country from ignominy — leaving the Communist camp. Later even the Czechs themselves would realize that. Yagubov was entering their history, he was going to become a national hero of theirs. Someday the whole of progressive mankind was going to know this, but for now not even his wife knew.
Yagubov was needed again the next day. He was appointed editor of the newspaper Praci, published by patriotic Czechs, that was being printed in Dresden and passed out for free in Czechoslovakia, now liberated by Soviet troops. This Czech-patriot newspaper was actually being put together in Moscow, at the Novosti press, the place where Yagubov worked. The Dresden edition was carried in on military helicopters. The journalist Karl Nepomnyashchy was killed on one of them, crushed under a load of newspapers. He was buried in Moscow, the cause of his death concealed. Yagubov worked day and night, personally checking and coordinating every line. He grew pale and thin. The Czechs didn't want to read his newspaper.
When the situation in Czechoslovakia had normalized, the necessity for a Czech patriots' strategic body declined. Having fulfilled his historic mission, Yagubov felt certain that he deserved a reward. But the secrecy of the whole operation had been so great that there was no way to reward him directly. He came to the conclusion that he could expect some sort of promotion. He wasn't in anticipation for long. In October he was allowed to go away on vacation. He set out for the airport with his wife and a new assignment: after his vacation, he would get down to work as first deputy to the editor of Trudovaya Pravda.
In his résumés and personal histories, Yagubov never indicated that he'd been a point-control policeman. He wrote that he'd 'occupied a post in the NKVD system.' All real KGB men had a concealed contempt for policemen in their hearts. Yagubov understood that he was lucky, but considered that this luck was something natural, a consequence of his peculiar qualities. Therefore he considered every job that he got to be something temporary, a step from which he could rise to the next. He was striving toward more responsible work, he wanted to be higher than other people, and, if he were to be given the chance to rule everyone, he would do it more wisely and correctly than those who were now ruling. Neither did Yagubov deny his ambition. He could well accept honours, see his portrait everywhere; just for fun, he thought about how the village of Nagutskaya was going to become the city of Yagubov. The future occupied his thoughts a lot less than the present did, though.
One concrete way to do this was to become an assistant to some Politburo member or Central Committee secretary, or best of all to the one in charge of international affairs, where he, Yagubov, was already an expert. But you didn't get appointed to a post like that, you got elected. And only one voter engaged in those elections. Assistants got their jobs in order to give their bosses additional grey matter. That was what Yagubov had. This rapid growth was impeded by only one serious deficiency — his perfect health. People of too-healthy an appearance were not liked by Politburo members, so, in order to rise to the top, Yagubov still had getting sick and getting old in store for him.
But even his present-day appointment to Trudovaya Pravda was a serious promotion. Only people who'd worked for the Central Committee — so that their work would be something personally known — were appointed editors-in-chief or their assistants. An exception had been made for Yagubov in consideration of his services. He even saw some danger in it: Makartsev had earlier worked in the Central Committee apparatus and consequently had connections there. Yagubov could be turned into a whipping boy. At one time he'd been a good parachutist, though, and he'd always pulled his ripcord at the right moment.
But the best-laid plans… Soon after his transfer to Trudovaya Pravda, Yagubov, via a phone call from the Central Committee, was assigned to welcome a Journalists' Union guest — the new (after the events in Czechoslovakia) deputy editor-in-chief of the Czech newspaper, Rude Pravo. They were both nearly the same age, but the Czech was a foot taller. Their itinerary took them to Central Asia. It was a trio, though, that took in the sights of Samarkand — their interpreter, Marina, a tall dyed blonde, well built and dressed in imported clothes, came along. There they were, dining in the restaurant of the Intourist Hotel Samarkand. The Czech screwed up his face against the flies and said that he liked it there a lot. They each drank two shot-glasses of vodka. Marina unhurriedly drained the rest of the bottle by herself. When they parted in the corridor, Yagubov noticed the interpreter going into the Czech's room and then leaving after an animated conversation with him.
The deputy editor of Rude Pravo, who had come to the Soviet Union in accordance with his convictions, and also being afraid of an insufficient display of them, had apparently turned down Marina's further services and bade her a good night. Marina hadn't expected an insult like that, and, going to Yagubov's room to ask for a cigarette, suggested: 'Do you want to have a look?'
He failed to understand. 'At what?'
She undressed and stood there, giving him time to catch on. 'Well, what do you think?'
Yagubov tried to chuck her out into the corridor, but she spun away with a laugh, and he couldn't make her put her clothes back on. Besides, she wasn't bad-looking at all, and he wasn't made of stone. The tall woman (he'd always been afraid of them) conducted herself superlatively well. Yagubov enjoyed that sort of activity, but he usually tried to restrain himself. An hour and a half later, after coming back to his senses, he tried to talk Marina into leaving.
'I like you,' she protested, and fell asleep on his arm.
Next morning he looked out into the corridor, and, after letting her out, sighed. Back in Moscow, Marina telephoned Yagubov at work. He was such a lofty person that he wouldn't even remember some people he knew. But she had the key to a new private one-room apartment, and she invited Yagubov to come see it. He spoke drily to her in return, and politely turned down the invitation to see the apartment, referring to his work load. On the desk in front of Marina at that moment lay her report on the Rude Pravo deputy editor-in-chief's trip to Central Asia. Putting down the phone, Marina thought for a little bit, and then, after giving the Czech Communist a short, positive character reference, she added at the end: 'Com. S. Yagubov was politically proper but morally unsteady on the trip.'
If he'd known that, Yagubov would surely have gone to inspect the new apartment. Politically he was indeed proper — impeccable, even. When some Swedish journalists visited the Trudovaya Pravda office, Yagubov met with them, due to Makartsev's illness. Anna ran down to the private buffet for some coffee and cakes. Certain issues were disturbing the Swedish journalists a great deal.
'Can you tell us, Mr. Yagubov, why Soviet newspapers torment individual writers, from time to time?'
He answered straightaway: 'We can't forbid newspapers to express their opinion. We have a free press here, too, gentlemen!'
'So what would one do if his own convictions diverged from whatever is the current position of your Party?'
'You see,' explained Yagubov, 'my thoughts belong to the Party. I'm at its disposal, so there can never be any divergence between it and me.'
'But mightn't there be, with individual people in the Party?' one of the journalists tried to pin him down, swallowing some coffee in order to give Yagubov time to think.
Yagubov was surprised that his Swedish colleague couldn't understand elementary things like this, but went on to explain it calmly.
'If such a Party member were to be higher than me in rank,' he said, 'there couldn't be any divergence. After all, a directive from them is a directive from the Party, for me.'
'You have said that you were a simple peasant, Mr. Yagubov. How have you managed to make a career?'
'In our country you can't make a career. You can only grow,' Yagubov patiently explained. 'In our country, all those who are dedicated to the Party and to our ideals grow quickly.' And Yagubov smiled his charming smile — a simple, open, Russian fellow from Stavropolye.
'Your parents — who are they?' asked another Swede.
'I've already told you, they're peasants,' chuckled Yagubov. 'In our language, collective farmers — kolkhozniki. I love them a great deal. Every spring I fly down there to them for a day or two, bring a lot of food with me, dig in the garden, fix the roof — that's hard for the old folks… I don't manage to get down there only if I'm on duty over the May Day holiday. Business before anything else, gentlemen!'
Translated from the Russian by Thomas Moore.
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