The Soviet Sisters: a Novel of the Cold War by Anika Scott

Author:Anika Scott
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2022-04-04T00:00:00+00:00

18

Vera

Testimony for Chairman A. Cheptsov

Military Collegium of the Supreme Court of the USSR

Moscow, 28 February–3 June 1956

[RECORDING]

On Red Square, Nikolai and I mingle in the crowd of Central Committee members and foreign envoys watching the May Day parade. It’s a fine, clear day, a day to wear hats with brims and no coats. We’re on a raised platform and have a good view of our forces, the infantry and the men of the navy marching in perfect step, and then the artillery roaring past. There are cameras everywhere, so we are sure to look happy despite the strain my sister’s case has put on our marriage. But my smile is genuine when the small children dash across the square, skipping and waving bouquets of white flowers. They rush up to the high balcony of the Lenin–Stalin Mausoleum, where they present their bouquets to the Presidium members and ministers. Khrushchev grins like a grandfather; he’s very fond of children. From where Nikolai and I stand, we have a perfect view of the balcony and the leadership, and can assess who is standing closer to whom, who is smiling too hard, who is looking grim when we should all be bursting with pride and cheer on this lovely day.

In my ear, Nikolai says, “Nikita Sergeyevich is in a fine mood; I’ll wager he’ll raise ten toasts at the banquet.”

“Fifteen,” I say. With a nod, my husband and I shake hands. This is the most harmonious we’ve been in weeks. Neither of us have spoken about Marya’s case since the night Furtseva came to tea at my mother’s.

After the parade, we head to the luncheon, members of the Presidium with Khrushchev at the head table, other officials and foreign guests spread around the hall. Khrushchev greets me and Nikolai warmly and invites us for a summer afternoon with his family in his new villa in the Lenin Hills. Cheered by this public recognition witnessed by at least a dozen people who matter, I tuck into the appetizers, careful with the salads, caviar, blinis, and my favorite—fried smelt with lemon; I’m only one woman with one stomach and the luncheon has barely begun. After we take our seats, Nikolai smiles and squeezes my hand under the table. He really is looking trim and splendid in his light summer suit, very much the urbane man I married. On this glorious day, I’m willing to put aside our differences and remember how proud I am to have him by my side.

Over the course of the meal, Khrushchev presents toast after toast until even I lose count. We’re warmed by the good cheer, the sparkling crystal all around us, the wine and champagne. Our senses are dulled; we’re late to observe the trouble brewing. Glass in hand, Khrushchev rises from his chair once again, red-faced and bullish, a new venom in his eye. “Some of you,” he says, “would toast Stalin. An old habit, all that loathsome adulation.” He turns his glare to the men of the Presidium seated around him.

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