and Tibilisi—that is, the country’s six largest cities.
About fifty miles from Moscow in Tuchkovo, the young Prince resumes his life; and for the most part, he does so without resentment, indignation, or nostalgia. In his new hometown, the grass still grows, the fruit trees blossom, and young women come of age. In addition, by virtue of his remoteness, he is spared the knowledge that one year after his sentence, a trio of Cheka will be waiting for his old instructor when he comes home to the small apartment where he lives with his aging wife. When they haul him before a troika, what seals his fate and sends him to the camps is evidence that on multiple occasions he had hired Former Person Nikolai Petrov to play in his quartet despite a clear prohibition against doing so.
But having said that you needn’t bother to remember the name of Prince Petrov, I should note that despite the brief appearance of the round-faced fellow with a receding hairline a chapter hence, he is someone you should commit to memory, for years later he will have great bearing on the outcome of this tale.
*Why, especially the street sweepers!
Those unsung few who rise at dawn and trod the empty avenues gathering up the refuse of the era. Not simply the matchbooks, candy wrappers, and ticket stubs, mind you; but the newspapers, journals, and pamphlets; the catechisms and hymnals, histories and memoirs; the contracts, deeds, and titles; the treaties and constitutions and all Ten Commandments.
Sweep on, street sweepers! Sweep until the cobblestones of Russia glitter like gold!
*Established in 1923, the OGPU replaced the Cheka as Russia’s cental organ of the secret police. In 1934, the OGPU would be replaced by the NKVD, which in turn would be replaced by the MGB in 1943 and the KGB in 1954. On the surface, this may seem confusing. But the good news is that unlike political parties, artistic movements, or schools of fashion—which go through such sweeping reinventions—the methodologies and intentions of the secret police never change. So you should feel no need to distinguish one acronym from the next.
*In those early years of the Soviet Union, how did the Bolsheviks countenance the idea of gilded chairs and Louis Quatorze dressers in the mansions of starlets? For that matter, how did they stomach them in their own apartments? Simple. Nailed to the bottom of every piece of fine furniture was a small copper plate embossed with a number. This number served to identify the piece as part of the vast inventory of the People. Thus, a good Bolshevik could sleep soundly in the knowledge that the mahogany bed he was lying on was not his; and despite the fact that his apartment was furnished with priceless antiques, he had fewer possessions than a pauper!
*Yes, this little gray fellow behind his little gray desk was charged not only with recording the information the waitresses gathered, but with ensuring their willing participation by reminding them of their duty to their country, by suggesting how easy it would be for them to lose their positions, and, when necessary, by making some other more ominous innuendo. But let us not condemn the fellow too quickly.
For he has never been to the Shalyapin Bar. Nor has he dined at the Boyarsky. He has been allotted a vicarious life—a life in which all experiences are at arm’s length, all sensations secondhand. No bleat of the trumpet, no clink of the glass, no sight of a young woman’s knee for him. Like a scientist’s assistant, his lot was simply to record the data and then relay a summary to his superiors without embellishment or elaboration.
To be fair, he was no slouch in this endeavor and was even known throughout his department as something of a prodigy. For no one in all of Moscow could write a report to such drab perfection. With limited instruction, he had perfected the art of withholding his insights, forgoing his witticisms, curbing the use of metaphors, similes, and analogies—in essence, exercising every muscle of poetic restraint. In fact, if the reporters whom he was dutifully transcribing had only seen his handiwork, they would have taken off their hats, bowed their heads, and acknowledged that here was a master of objectivity.
*While many of the young loyalists (like Nina) who joined the udarniks in the countryside would have their faith in the Party tested by what they witnessed, most of Russia, and for that matter the world, would be spared the spectacle