Sapphire Skies (4 page)

I
met Stalin once. I thought it was the most exciting day of my life. I was fourteen years old.

‘Natasha, we are here!’ cried my father, when the official car we were travelling in passed St Basil’s Cathedral and approached the Spassky Gate.

I stared out the window at the red walls and towers of the Kremlin. I had seen the outer fortress of the ancient city many times but this was the first time I had ever been inside. I squeezed Papa’s hand as the car passed under the archway and I caught a glimpse of the secret gardens. The golden domes of the cathedrals sparkled in the fading autumn light. The Ivan the Great Bell Tower dominated all the other buildings. It was said to mark the centre of Moscow. People no longer worshipped at Assumption Cathedral and the Cathedral of the Archangel, but something of the grandeur of imperial coronations and funerals of the past remained in the atmosphere. A thrill ran through me when I imagined ladies dressed in velvet and bedecked in jewels watching soldiers on parade. But I caught myself. Of course life was much better for us now that Comrade Stalin was in charge. The Tsar Nicholas and his predecessors had done nothing for the Russian people except exploit them.

The car stopped outside the Grand Kremlin Palace and the driver opened the door for us.

‘Come on, don’t dawdle,’ teased Papa, reaching out his hand to help me from the car.

‘So this is where Comrade Stalin lives?’ I whispered.

‘Not quite, Natasha,’ my father replied, grinning. ‘I believe his rooms are in the Amusement Palace.’

My grandfather had been the official confectioner to the Imperial House and Papa had been to the Grand Kremlin Palace many times with him. After the Revolution, when Lenin was in power, my family became ‘class enemies’, and none of us had been inside the Kremlin since. Now Stalin was in charge, things had changed again. Papa and I were there as guests to a gala dinner in honour of the aviator Valery Chkalov and his crew for having performed the first non-stop transpolar flight to America.

I smoothed down my silk dress, made by my mother especially for the occasion, and followed my father to join other guests waiting at the entrance. I recognised some of their faces from the pages of
Pravda
: there were famous chess players, footballers, dancers from the Bolshoi Ballet, as well as celebrated workers and peasants. I spied Olga Penkina, a milkmaid who had received the Order of Lenin for overfulfilling her farm’s production norm.

‘Do you think Marina Raskova will be here as well?’ I asked my father.

The wall above my bed was covered with pictures of famous aviators, and Raskova had pride of place next to my portrait of Stalin. Whenever a pilot broke a record, I’d go with my family to join the crowds cheering them as they were paraded down Tverskaya Street. That was why my mother had forgone her place at the dinner so that I could accompany my father.

‘I wouldn’t let you miss out on this, Natasha. Not for anything,’ she’d said.

My father nudged me. ‘
There’s
someone you’ll be interested to see.’

I turned to where he was looking and spotted Anatoly Serov alighting from a car. The dashing fighter pilot was a hero of the Spanish Civil War. I was even more excited when I saw he had brought his actress wife, Valentina, with him. She was so beautiful. I had tried to copy her look by pouring lemon juice through my blonde hair and sitting in the sunshine, but I had never been able to achieve Valentina’s shade of platinum. A guard appeared and invited us into the palace. We ascended the staircase to St George Hall an unruly group. The peasants stepped timidly on the red carpet, getting in the way of ballerinas who pranced behind them. The footballers spoke loudly, while the factory workers ogled the bronze wall lamps. My father and I followed behind Serov and his wife. How elegantly Valentina moved! There was something feline about her. I watched her every step of the way and tried to imitate her stalking gait.

At the end of the staircase, we were ushered into the reception hall, where we uttered a collective sigh. The snow-white walls, lit by chandeliers, were dazzling, and the pattern on the parquet floor was of such an intricate design that for a moment I thought it was a magnificent carpet. At the far end of the hall, under a vaulted ceiling, tables were arranged in banquet style, with a head table and several oval-shaped ones placed around a dance floor. A chamber orchestra played Tchaikovksy’s ‘Nocturne in D Minor’. I was surprised when the head waiter led my father and me to one of the front tables.

When we were all seated, one of the guards marched to the double doors and announced that Comrade Stalin had arrived. We rose to our feet. I noticed the worker opposite my father and me wiping his trembling hands on his thighs.

‘Don’t get excited,’ my mother had cautioned me about meeting Stalin. ‘Let him do the talking, and don’t express your opinions … on anything.’

Stalin entered the hall accompanied by three uniformed guards. He wore a grey marshal’s uniform and his hair was brushed back from his forehead. He moved slowly and deliberately, meeting the eye of anyone who was bold enough to look into his face. I lowered my gaze when he looked in our direction. Stalin emanated authority, although he was shorter and older looking than he appeared in his portraits. He was followed in by the heroes Valery Chkalov, his co-pilot Georgy Baidukov and navigator Alexander Belyakov, and several commissars. They took their places and Vyacheslav Molotov, the chairman of the Council of People’s Commissars, welcomed us and proposed a toast to ‘our great leader and teacher of all peoples’. Then he toasted Chkalov and his crew as ‘knights of culture and progress’.

The meal began. The feast set out before us included Olivier and beetroot salads, caviar and pickled vegetables for starters, followed by mushroom soup and fish. What impressed me most wasn’t the variety and abundance of the food, or the champagne and fine wines served in crystal glasses, but the quality of the bread. The rolls were so soft and sweet that they dissolved in my mouth; they didn’t need butter or oil to make them palatable. I had never tasted bread like it. Our family was spared the queues for bread rations because my father’s position meant that we received special parcels of items that weren’t always available in the stores. Even then the bread was often hard and bitter. The shortage of bread, I had discerned from whispered conversations around me, had something to do with the peasants in the countryside — with their farms being turned into collectives. When I’d asked my mother about it, I’d received the mysterious reply: ‘You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.’

After the main course of chicken cutlets and vegetable pie, our leader rose to give a speech about aviation and its importance to the Soviet Union.

‘Vast expanses of our great country are still not linked by roads and railways,’ he thundered. ‘Air travel is the most promising solution to this problem. The Motherland needs courageous and determined pilots with this vision.’

He spoke like he moved: unhurriedly and with intention. Each word penetrated my consciousness. But he didn’t need to convince me. I already had ambitions of learning to fly like my brother, Alexander, who was a cadet in the air force. I’d learned from my instruction that women in the Soviet Union were the equals of men, unlike women in the West. Even those from poor families could go to university to study science or engineering, or rise to become factory managers.

Valery Chkalov stood up to speak next. Although I had read every thrilling detail about his transpolar flight in
Pravda
, it was exciting to hear the story from the man who had lived it. I hung on each word while Chkalov described how the plane’s compass had become inoperable as the crew neared the polar region, and how from then on Belyakov had to rely on dead reckoning and a solar heading indicator as his guides. I gasped along with everyone else when Chkalov explained how headwinds and storms caused the fuel to be consumed faster than anticipated and depleted the crew’s limited oxygen supplies. Then he related how General George C Marshall was there to greet them on their arrival in America and went on to describe the cheering crowds who turned out as they were paraded through New York City. I imagined each scene as if it was I who had experienced it. I saw myself waving to the adoring crowds from the open-topped car, attired like Valentina Serova in a dress with shoulder pads and high-heeled pumps. My platinum-blonde hair glistening in the sun as President Roosevelt shook my hand and the press cameramen rushed forward to take my picture. I was lost in the glory of my celebrity when Papa nudged me. Chkalov had proposed a toast.

‘To Comrade Stalin, who teaches us and rears us like his own children. Even in the most dangerous situations, we feel his fatherly eyes upon us.’

I leaped to my feet with everyone else and raised my glass. ‘To Comrade Stalin!’

The waiters brought us dessert of peach compote and raspberry ice-cream. The fruity flavours reminded me of summer days at our dacha.

Anastas Mikoyan, the commissar for the food industry, who was seated at our table, leaned towards my father. ‘Ice-cream — like chocolate — used to be available to the working man and his family only on special holidays,’ he said. ‘Now they can be mass-produced by machines. Why would anyone want to eat handmade ice-cream or chocolates when they can have them produced by shiny modern equipment?’

‘Indeed,’ replied my father.

I wasn’t sure that Papa agreed with Mikoyan’s sentiments. His family was once famous for their fine handmade chocolates and pastries. But my father wasn’t a political man. He had not been able to find employment for several years after his family’s disfavour, and now he enjoyed his job at the Red October chocolate factory, where he had been given a free hand in inventing new chocolate recipes. As long as he was allowed to make things that delighted people, he was happy.

I noticed Stalin was watching us. He stood up slowly and held his glass up to my father.

‘I now propose a special toast to Comrade Azarov, chief chocolatier of the Red October chocolate factory,’ he said. ‘The factory has not only overfulfilled its annual plan for the past two years but has, thanks to Comrade Azarov, also improved the variety and quality of chocolates available to the Soviet people. He has invented two hundred new types of chocolate.’

Papa was caught off guard; he had not expected to be toasted. He blushed and moved his hand to his throat, flustered, and in his usual self-effacing way attempted to deflect the praise onto others.

‘Thank you, Comrade Stalin,’ he said, rising to his feet and holding up a champagne glass. ‘And I would like to propose a toast to Comrade Mikoyan, who has not only been responsible for our success by ensuring the supply of the raw materials needed, but also has made champagne available to every man and woman.’

Stalin’s eyes narrowed for a moment as if he were trying to discern some hidden meaning behind what my father had said. But then he smiled and lifted his glass again. ‘Indeed, comrades, life has become more joyous! Life has become more fun!’

He turned to the orchestra, which had been joined by a saxophonist and jazz bass player, and nodded. They started up a foxtrot.

Papa shook off his embarrassment and led me to the dance floor. We weaved and turned to the jazz music playing, which was now officially approved. We were good dancers. We had to be — my mother was a ballroom dance teacher. She had trained to be an opera singer, but after the Revolution things changed. During the hard years, when my brother and I were born and my father and other artisans had no work, she supported the family by giving lessons in piano, dance and art to a small number of students. Now, as my father’s fortunes had changed, my mother’s had too. As I had read in
Pravda
:
Once, the good life was the realm of the tsars and nobles. Under Comrade Stalin, it is for every man, woman and child to live well
. My mother not only gave lessons in ballroom dancing to former working-class couples but also taught them deportment, elocution and music appreciation. Stalin encouraged his people to try new things and to show what bright lives the Soviet people lived, unexploited, outside the capitalist system.

As Papa and I danced, I noticed Stalin moving between the guests with a glass of cognac in his hand, but his eyes were constantly on me. Or, to be more precise, on my feet. My shoes seemed to bother him. Indeed, they did not go with my lovely dress. They were a pair of black court shoes that I had inherited from my mother and kept for special occasions. We had polished them as best we could but there was no hiding that they were old. Shoes were the most difficult item of all to obtain, even for a family like mine who had access to special stores. Occasionally we would hear a rumour that shoes were available at a certain store, but after lining up for hours we would discover that they were only of a single size or of such poor quality that they would fall apart after one wearing. My brother explained that it had to do with supply and demand and a shortage of raw materials. But when I asked him more about it, my mother had quickly cut us short. ‘Never, never say anything that could be interpreted as a criticism of our state!’ she’d warned.

Papa and I returned to our table and I was surprised to see Stalin approach us.

‘Comrade Azarov,’ he said, ‘I must compliment you on your beautiful young wife.’

‘Oh no!’ said my father, becoming flustered again and not realising that Stalin was joking. ‘This is my daughter, Natalya.’

‘My mother was ill so I came in her place,’ I told Stalin, repeating the white lie she had instructed me to tell if anyone asked why she hadn’t attended.

‘You see, Natalya is a budding pilot,’ added my father. ‘I had to bring her tonight.’

‘Is that so?’ Stalin asked, taking the seat Mikoyan had vacated to dance. He stroked his thick moustache and studied my face.

I remembered my mother’s warning not to say too much, but Stalin’s interest in my ambition got the better of me.

‘Yes, Comrade Stalin,’ I said, tucking my feet under my chair so that my shoes wouldn’t distract him again. ‘I hope one day to be one of your eagles and bring great glory to the Soviet Union.’