and role model for us all.” He raised his glass again. “I propose a toast to a brave man, to a man of principle and conviction, to a citizen with a capital c. I wish my friend Galya Shaffir good health and many, many years of productive work for the well-being of our great motherland.” By Russian tradition, Garrik gulped his vodka at once, and then, with a theatrical gesture, set the empty glass on the table and dropped onto his chair. Some guests applauded him; others followed his example and gulped their drinks.
There were many different toasts that evening. We drank to parents, to Tanya, to Sergey, to a new apartment the family needed, and more and more. Within a few hours the table had lost its pristine beauty as if a tornado had swept over it, leaving empty dishes and a tablecloth covered with motley spots of red wine and different foods. The guests’ voices had grown louder, their faces redder and sweaty. Some were changing places at the table, and the room turned into a beehive of sounds— moving chairs, laughter, and clinking of glasses . . .
By that time, Sergey had already left after talking on the phone with a friend. I found myself surrounded by the group of guests, delivering jokes one after another. They interspersed their speeches with profanities, which was very fashionable in the top echelon of Soviet society. All Jews, well acquainted with each other, they felt secure in that charming room after a wonderful diner. Relaxed, they had a talent for telling stories. Soon my stomach was sore from laughing.
Then a brunette with round black eyes, dressed in a flowered blouse, was telling a joke about Khrushchev when her husband drew my attention to what was going on between Galya and Garrik. Turning to the other side of the table, I found them in the midst of a dispute. I couldn’t hear the words, but neither of them was smiling and tension strained their faces. A suspicious silence fell over the room.
Staring at the table, Galya moved aside the glasses and plates in front of him, as if preparing a battlefield. He took a fork in his hand and twisted it in his fingers. He spoke slowly, but with vigor and indignation. “If you think that Khrushchev’s hands are not bloody, you’re foolishly naïve. He was doing in the Ukraine what Stalin did to the entire country. Nobody was free from the system.”
Garrik, drunk, could not maintain decorum. He shouted, “You don’t understand the significance of our time! What Khrushchev has exposed about the past will help us to change the system you’re talking about.”
Galya’s bright brown eyes revealed he was seething, but he held his temper and spoke quietly. “I know you’re a good lawyer who knows a lot of poetry, but it’s not sufficient, considering ‘the significance of our time.’ I thought you were better informed. Unfortunately, your words demonstrate not only a naïveté of opinion, but also an inability to show sound judgment. How easy it is to deceive good people. Alas, ignorance is bliss, and only those acquainted with the truth and duty of conscience feel pain.”
I watched Galya with complete disbelief. Perhaps alcohol took away his selfrestraint, I thought. Meanwhile, his voice became louder and stronger. “Nothing can change a system run by the same people. The remedy for the Soviet system is as of yet unknown. The old mentality of lying and cheating is shaped by it and is winning. Every month I argue in the District Party Committee without any success. Do you know what it means to voice disagreement in the Communist Party Committee? People there are so filled with missionary zeal they will never admit they were wrong.
“Your ‘esteemed’ Nikita Khrushchev has exposed only the tip of the iceberg and he did that to win his fight for power with Bulganin and Malenkov. The three of them killed Beria. Khrushchev helped to destroy one of his own, portraying Beria as a foreign spy. That was nonsense. Beria was doomed because he knew the crimes of the inner circle. Do you know that they tricked Beria, and then murdered him before the court rendered the death sentence? Does that remind you of anything?” Galya asked sarcastically, cleaning foam from his lips and continuing in the same tone.
“You have already forgotten how Stalin killed millions. I’m not talking about show trials and the politics of personal destruction, demonizing leaders of the opposition. No. I’m talking about tens of millions of innocent Soviet citizens slaughtered by Stalin. Do you know that he killed all his relatives because they knew his past? He shot the best people to promote his yes-men and cover up the truth. That is the way Stalin shaped the Soviet system. Think about it, and keep in mind the manner of the Beria assassination. The modus operandi of the Stalinist system is still alive and well.”
Garrik attempted to answer, but Galya stopped him, extending his hand with a fork. “Let me give you two examples to characterize the methods of the system and the character of your ‘esteemed’ comrade Khrushchev. He knew that Postyshev was guilty of nothing. Yet the first secretary of the Ukrainian Communist Party did nothing to save that innocent old Bolshevik. Adherence to the system prompted Khrushchev to follow precept. Crying, on his knees, Petyshev was maintaining his innocence, but nobody heard him . . . You would recognize the pattern if you had intellectual curiosity.” Galya put the fork on the table, his mouth tightly closed.
“OK, give me the second example,” Garrik said, pushing back his black hair with both his hands, preparing himself for the response.
“Second, your ‘esteemed’ Nikita Khrushchev gave an order to blow up a synagogue in Kiev and build a new TV building on the spot. Are you following this pattern? Stalin blew up thousands of churches and synagogues, turning some into stables and storage buildings. Forget about changing the system. Stalin forged it with an iron hand, tightening his inner circle by mutual crime. Do you know that Stalin forced all of the members of the Politburo to sign his lists of people destined to be executed? He cast a plague on the great Russian culture and stopped the progress of civilization in our country . . .”
Galya’s last words shocked Garrik. He could not restrain himself further. “Your examples will not alter the historic fact. Stalin won the Great Patriotic War. In his name, soldiers committed heroic deeds, contesting every inch of our ground, dying on the battlefields. He saved our country, us Jews, and you and me—”
“For you to suggest that makes me sick to my stomach,” Galya struck back. “The Soviet people of all nationalities won World War II! Stalin used and betrayed them all. Before the war he annihilated millions of innocent men, leaving fatherless families behind. Because of him, millions of our young boys were taken prisoners by the Germans in the first months of the war and perished in captivity. He deprived our army of the best generals, shooting them just before the war. You haven’t heard about them? Listen, Jacob,” he addressed the silver-haired man sitting in the center of the T table, “tell this young man about the case of Marshal Rokossovsky, would you?” Evidently, Galya intended to end the discussion. He left the table and approached Jacob Mayzel.
“Please, Jacob, tell them the truth. I’ll be back in a minute.” He left the room. The four walls covered with all that art, stared at us. Nobody spoke. I was sitting with my mouth open, totally bewildered, not knowing how to react. The last name I’d expected to hear was Marshal Rokossovsky’s. That name evoked only love and admiration. Soviet women adored him—he was the embodiment of courage. A highly decorated hero of World War II, his portraits appeared in Soviet prints and publications, and we often saw him in documentaries. Tall and broad shouldered, handsome with a full head of chestnut hair and a pair of playful eyes, he could charm anybody with his smile revealing a mouth full of gold teeth, which were very fashionable at that time. An extremely attractive Pole with a proud bearing, dressed in a military uniform, he was an idol beloved by the entire country. On a white horse, he had commanded the Victory Day parade on Red Square after the end of World War II.
What could it mean, “the case of Marshal Rokossovsky”? Confusion was also written on the faces of all the guests. Only the whispering of Jacob’s wife, a smart and knowledgeable woman, broke the silence.
When Galya returned, the situation had not changed. He took a seat. “You haven’t started yet, Jacob? Please, be aware that at our table sit only thoughtful people. I assure you of that.” The silver-haired man at the center of the table sat quietly. Looking into space in front of him, his head elevated a bit, both hands crossed on the table, he kept silent. A patriarch of the bar association, he had known bad times. And though we were living in Khrushchev’s Thaw, taking consideration whether to speak