Agnessa: A Gulag Memoir

Mirosha

      Mirosha       His  real  name  was  Miron  Iosifovich  Korol.  In  those  days  it  was  fashionable  to   take   a   pseudonym,   and   he   became   Sergei   Naumovich   Mironov.   His   family   and  close  friends  called  him  Mirosha.   I  saw  him  for  the  first  time  in  Rostov  in  1923  or  1924,  when  Ivan  Aleksan-­‐‑ drovich  was  still  the  chief  of  staff  of  border  troops  in  the  Northern  Caucasus.   It  was  at  a  rally  to  celebrate  the  anniversary  of  the  Red  Army.  The  speakers,   our   local   Rostov   party   types,   were   philistines   and   bores.   Suddenly   an   un-­‐‑ known  figure  mounted  the  podium,  a  man  in  black  leather,  an  army  cap,  a   revolver  at  his   waist.  He   spoke  about   world  revolution.   We  had  conquered   the  interventionists,  he   said,  but   they   were  regrouping  to  attack  us  again.  I   scarcely  heard  a  word  he  said,  so  enchanted  was  I  by  his  strong,  handsome   face   and   his   kind,   endearing   expression.   He   had   the   most   beautiful   brown   eyes  and  amazing  eyelashes—long  and  thick,  like  fans.     By  and  large  I  am  suspicious  of  handsome  men  because  they  are  exces-­‐‑ sively  preoccupied  with  their  conquests.  Women  fall  all  over  them  and  spoil   them.  So  I  immediately  lost  interest  in  him.  Still,  at  home  I  asked  Ivan  Alek-­‐‑ sandrovich:  “So,  what  kind  of  a  man  is  he?”  He  answered,  “He’s  one  of  the   commanders  who  came  along  with  E.  G.  Evdokimov,  the  head  of  the  Cheka   in  southeastern  Russia.”  I  didn’t  give  him  another  thought.   One  day  soon  after  the  rally  we  military  wives  were  called  to  headquar-­‐‑ ters.   We   were   scolded   for   being   concerned   only   with   our   clothes   and   our   domestic  affairs.  Petty  bourgeois,  they  called  us.  We  must  keep  up  with  our   husbands!  We  must  become  politically  literate!  So  we  were  ordered  to  attend   special  classes  on  Tuesdays  at  five  p.m.  to  study  politics.    Don’t  be  late!  Bring  copy  books  and  pencils!   Since  Ivan  Aleksandrovich  warned  that  if  I  didn’t  attend  I  would  compro-­‐‑ mise  him,  I  appeared  promptly  at  five  the  following  Tuesday.   We  women  sat  around  chattering,  surreptitiously  looking  each  other  over,   who   was  dressed  how,   who   had   some  kind   of  a  pendant  around  her  neck,   who  wore  a  necklace—was  it  real  pearl  or  artificial?  Many  of  the  women  were   dressed   more   expensively   than   I,   but   tastelessly.   How   wasted   those   costly   things  are  on  them,  I  thought.  How  marvelous  I  would  look  in  those  expen-­‐‑ sive  clothes.   When   the   teacher   entered,   I   recognized   him   at   once   as   that   very   com-­‐‑ mander   who   had   spoken   at   the   rally!   He   wasn’t   wearing   his   cap   this   time,   and  I  examined  him  more  closely.  A  noble  face,  a  high  brow.  His  smiling  eyes   were  unusual—the  upper  lids  arched,  the  lower  straight.  And  those  amazing   36 AGNESSA luxuriant   eyelashes.   His   cheeks   were   dimpled;   his   powerful   mouth   beauti-­‐‑ fully   formed   over   even   white   teeth,   his   thick   wavy   hair   framed   his   face.   Broad-­‐‑shouldered,   strong,   his   gait   thrusting,   powerful.   His   smile   was   so   charming.  I  saw  that  our  ladies  were  smitten.   He   introduced   himself   as   Mironov   without   his   first   name   and   patro-­‐‑ nymic—that’s   how   it   was   done   in   those   days—and   explained   that   he   had   been  assigned  to  discuss  political  issues  with  us.1  It  was  our  task,  he  began,  to   defend  the  revolution,  the  first  and  only  revolution  in  the  world.  We  must  de-­‐‑ fend   the   Red   Army   with   all   our   strength   because   the   proletariat   of   other   countries  was  somehow  late  with  their  own  revolutions—and  the  capitalists   were  not  drowsing.   Our  ladies  could  not  tear  their  eyes  from  him.  They  had  all  fallen  in  love   with  him.  They  were  even  trying  to  take  notes.  Alright,  I  thought,  here’s  a  job   for  me.  I  certainly  did  not  intend  to  fall  in  the  mud  on  my  face.  Am  I  worse,   for  example,  than  Nyuska  with  her  white  fox  draped  over  her  shoulders?  In   such  a  hot  spring!  Why  don’t  these  people  understand  that  one  must  dress  for   the  season?   I  too  began  to  take  notes,  sloppily  to  be  sure.  I  was  in  such  a  hurry.  But  at   home  I  asked  Ivan  Aleksandrovich  to  explain  things  better  and  to  drill  me.  He   was  very  pleased  that  I  wouldn’t  shame  him.   At  the  next  session  Mironov  suggested  that  we  review  the  previous  dis-­‐‑ cussion.  He  called  first  on  Nyuska.  I  hear  her  babbling  in  fits  and  starts  what   she  had  memorized  about  world  revolution  and  “Sicialism.”  I  itched  with  im-­‐‑ patience—why  doesn’t  he  call  on...