Good People by Nir Baram Page B

she sat by her husband, massaging his hand—except for Emma, of course.
    ‘Emma Feodorovna, Andreyusha already said that he doesn’t know anything. He’s busy all day at the institute,’ Valeria scolded her. ‘I suggest that we turn to Comrade Stepan Kristoforovich Merkalov, the new head of the department…’
    ‘No, we need someone in the literary world,’ Emma objected.‘Brodsky can write to his beloved teacher, Tolstoy!’ She made sure everyone had caught her mocking tone. ‘He must appreciate our friend’s critical perspective.’
    Emma really had a noble soul, Sasha decided, since her life would be easier in a world without Nadya—but she was prepared to take a risk to try to save her.
    Brodsky scratched his reddish beard and appraised his friends with his bright, grave eyes. Now Sasha saw her mother glare at Brodsky. Her imagination shaved his beard off and examined his naked face: was he the informer? Maybe all these fears were exaggerated, unnerving them, kindling constant suspicion? Maybe there were no informers here at all?
    ‘It would do no good to speak to Tolstoy,’ Brodsky’s silky voice crooned. ‘He read Nadya’s long poem where she says what she thinks about his writing: “Footprints in the snow are better literature.” Not long ago we asked him to give her coupons for a sweater and a coat. He authorised the sweater, but refused the coat.’
    ‘Why did she have to ask? Isn’t she getting a pension?’ inquired Morozovsky.
    ‘They replaced it years ago with old-age benefits,’ Brodsky chuckled. ‘Barely a hundred rubles. Her father told me they wrote to her: “You are receiving an allowance by virtue of your devoted work on behalf of Russian literature, and because it is not possible to use your services at the present time.” And someone from the Writers’ Association told her, “It would be better if you stopped writing poetry.”’
    An image glimmered on the edge of Sasha’s consciousness: they were sitting in Varlamov’s garden, and the old poet was giving one of his speeches. Nadya hugged her. ‘Girl, if you want to be a poet,’ she said, ‘just remember one thing—true poets resist the enchanting spells of nostalgia.’
    She struggled to drive away the memory. Her mother was placing a platter of poppy-seed cookies on the round wicker table. Beneath it she could see the twins’ tattered slippers. ‘I remembered something,’ said Osip Borisovich. ‘It would be wrong not to mention it: wasn’t theresome kind of connection between Nadka and Bliumkin in the twenties? Could that be behind the accusations against her?’
    Stillness fell in the living room, interrupted by the clink of Brodsky’s fork.
    Her father shut his eyes as he always did when he knew he was hearing something because of cruel fate.
    ‘Bliumkin! A despicable human being!’ Varlamov shouted at the wall. ‘A murderer who betrayed the proletariat, and had the effrontery to start scheming with the Trotskyites. His execution was a happy day for the party!’
    Sasha stifled a laugh. This habit of talking to the wall was new. No one doubted that the telephones were tapped, and now people had started asking: were they installing microphones in the walls too? If so, in which ones? Many believed that it couldn’t be done, or they were listening to more important targets. Nevertheless, niggling doubts remained: perhaps some things were best said directly to the wall.
    ‘Bliumkin was a filthy dog, an enemy of the people. Death was too good for him,’ Brodsky proclaimed to the faded wallpaper.
    ‘They say that the traitor Bliumkin used to give women pleasure until they went mad,’ commented Emma Fiodrovna, ‘almost like our friend Brodsky.’
    Why did Osip bring up Bliumkin? He wouldn’t have dared, Sasha concluded, unless he received an order from someone. The NKVD? No, that was too simple and suspicious a move.
    ‘Osip Borisovich, we admire your sincerity, but there’s no point throwing rumours