Kremlin Wolf

December 14, 2010 · Books, USSR

THE KREMLIN WOLF

Stuart Kagan

USA, 1987.

Stuart Kahan, The Wolf of the Kremlin

(William Morrow and Company, New York, 1987)

https://www.amazon.com/Wolf-Kremlin-Biography-Kaganovich-Architect/dp/0688075290

Memoirs of Lazar Kaganovich, recorded from his words by his American nephew,
Stuart Kagan

Moscow, 2004.

Translator’s Foreword

Stuart Kaganovich (Stuart Kagan) is the nephew of Lazar Kaganovich. His family emigrated to America before the revolution, and from that point their paths diverged from the family of Lazar Kaganovich. In the early 1980s, Stuart Kaganovich, intrigued by the personality of his famous uncle, visited the Soviet Union and conversed with Lazar Kaganovich in his apartment on the Frunzenskaya Embankment. The result of that conversation is this book. The author of the book does not speak Russian. The conversations between the author and Lazar Kaganovich took place in Yiddish. Lazar Kaganovich died in 1991. Born in 1888, he lived 103 years. His death coincided with the demise of the Soviet state, in the construction of which he had, in one way or another, been directly involved.

FOREWORD.

And so here I am in Moscow, 1981, looking out of the hotel window at the crowds of Muscovites hurrying to the metro. It’s rush hour. Time for me to go, too. After five years of preparation, the most decisive moment has arrived. I check the address one last time, though there’s no need: I’ve memorized it. I head to the metro—one of Moscow’s landmarks, sparkling clean, an underground museum with steel columns, granite walls, stained glass, mosaic ceilings, and magnificent sculptures—and at the same time it’s fast, cheap, and very convenient.

I step onto the speeding escalator, which in no more than 60 seconds takes me down to a depth of about 200 meters, and as I do, I recall how five years ago I stumbled upon a newspaper article. It reported that He was still alive. I laughed inwardly. That old son of a bitch would outlive anyone. Now He must be nearly ninety, and I have heard about Him all my forty-seven years. I also remember how people talked about Him. It always happened around the dinner table, only in the presence of the closest relatives and exclusively in whispers. It seemed we tried to diminish His significance, treating Him as something unreal, a subject for table talk that could be forgotten the moment we left the table.

But still I could not simply close my eyes and get rid of Him. My interest in family history grew, like an obsession, more and more. How many people have an uncle who ran the largest country in the world for over forty years?! How many have an aunt (Rosa Kaganovich) who was the friend of an absolute dictator, and another uncle who served as Commissar of Aviation?!

Though Rosa and Mikhail played important roles, the stage director was always Lazar.

Lazar Moiseevich Kaganovich, the second man in the state after Stalin. Chairman of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet. The man who united the state security organs into what later became the famous KGB. The man who personally directed the purges that swept the country in the thirties and forties. The man who repressed people like no one before him. The man personally responsible for the deaths of no fewer than 20 million people. The man under whose leadership this fantastic Moscow metro was built, which bore his name for over twenty years. All of that was Him—the man I was now on my way to see.

“Uncle Lazar,” as he was most often called in our family, with fear, was only a 30-minute ride away from the moment I stepped into the metro car at Kaluzhskaya station.

I think that most people who study their ancestry strive to find princes and princesses, kings and queens, the greatest advocates of peace and prosperity. But I was about to meet the “most merciless man,” as Khrushchev branded him, who ever sat in the Kremlin, and about whom, though many years have passed since those events, nothing has yet been written.

I needed to learn more than simply “what” and “when.” I had to understand several “whys.” Why did this man not spare even his own Jewish people and his own Jewish religion? Why did he turn his back on everything he had been taught?

In fact, all my life I had been researching his life, the life of his sister and brothers. I read a great deal and attended lectures by leading political figures at many colleges and universities. I gleaned some useful information from one source, something from another. One well-known author claimed that Lazar was this; another proved he was that. But no one, it seemed, had ever really gotten to the bottom of it and written what actually happened in those turbulent years after Lenin’s death.

I ride to Frunzenskaya station. Coming out of the metro, I turn and enter a small park across from the Moskva River. It is quiet here, and beyond the spreading trees rise large cream-colored apartment buildings, reminding me of the Riverside neighborhood in New York. For ten minutes I sit on a bench, collecting my thoughts, then I get up and head for the building with the number “50.” I climb the stairs to the fifth floor and find myself in front of the right door. I feel my heart stop. The door of apartment number 384 stares back at me, and it seems that the number fills the entire door surface. I steel myself to press the button. A short, piercing ring sounds. At ten in the morning on a Wednesday, who could be home? Adults are at work, children at school. Only old folks might be home. Silence. I wait and count to ten. Then I ring again. I hear heavy footsteps, as if they belong to a twenty-year-old. Is that possible? Perhaps I was given the wrong address.

Someone approaches the door. I catch my breath and hear a confident, angry voice: “What do you want?” It takes me a few seconds to understand what I’ve heard. Then I quickly utter the prepared phrase: “I’m your nephew. An American.” The voice again: “I have no relatives.” I answer: “No, no, no. I’m a nephew.” Silence again. I take a breath: “Please, open the door.” The voice: “Vos zogt ir?” A different language! He… he’s speaking Yiddish! It’s him! Who else could it be? Without hesitation I answered: “Ikh bet dikh. Ofn… ofn… of.” (Please, open.)

Another deep breath. I hear the clicking of locks. I count: one, two, three, four. That old, cunning son of a bitch knows how to protect himself. The door opens a crack. It is held by a heavy door chain. In the gap—darkness. He can see me, but I can’t see him. No wonder he’s examining me for so long.

I hear the voice: “Vos zogt ir?” (What did you say?)

I try my best to speak Russian, occasionally sprinkling in Yiddish words. “I’m from America. From the Morris family. Please, let me in.” I stare into the darkness. The door closes. He won’t let me finish. The words fly from my tongue: “Stop! Stop! I’m the only relative you can talk to. Why push me away, the way you’ve pushed away your family all these years? Even Morris and Uncle Lyovik. Damn it, why even me!” I feel tears about to burst from my eyes.

Then I hear the clinking of metal. He removes the door chain. I can almost feel the door handle turning. The stories I’ve heard all my life, the years of searching, and all the answers lie on the other side of that door!

The door opens. I feel it. A sliver of light flashes, and a slight draft wafts through. I seem even to have stopped breathing. Before me I see the massive face of a man as tall as myself, the gray at his temples and in his mustache, the wide-set brown eyes. He looks like a brother of Larry, who is now sixty. The man in the doorway studies me. “Uncle Lazar?” I mumble. He nods. I stand face to face with the Wolf himself.

The door opens wide, and the massive figure steps aside. He says nothing. The invitation hangs in the air. I step over the threshold. A few steps away is the living room. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a small kitchen to my left.

The room is dark. At the far end there is a window looking out onto the park. The treetops are level with the windowsill. I glance quickly around, knowing that he is still standing in the hallway, watching me.

The room is furnished with old, dark-wood furniture. The pieces look very heavy. The sofa is covered with a green throw, and two armchairs stand nearby. Doilies lie on the armrests and the back of the chairs – the unmistakable touch of a woman’s hand. I point at them.

“That’s Maya,” he says. “She comes to me once a week. She cleans and brings groceries. She is good, and I love her sincerely.”

Maya is his daughter. A small shelf hangs on the wall. It is filled with many photographs in gilded frames, showing various stages of Uncle Lazar’s life, including photos of his comrades. Most of the images are of Stalin. If I didn’t know where I was, I might think this was Stalin’s apartment. One photograph catches my attention: Uncle Lyovik and Morris standing at the entrance to Morris’s studio in Philadelphia. This picture was most likely taken about fifty years ago. I reach out and touch the photograph, but suddenly I hear “Don’t touch!” and step back from the shelf. I reach into my coat pocket and pull out an envelope. Without saying a word, I hand it to him. He has already come into the room and is standing not far from me. His presence is overwhelming. Although the room is small and he is no longer that imposing, all-powerful man, he seems to fill the entire space and dominate it completely.

He takes the envelope from my hands and goes over to the window, where the light is better. He doesn’t use glasses. He studies its contents intently. I had carefully selected family photographs before my trip to Russia. Many of them show me, which serves to verify my identity. And one photograph of Uncle Lyovik and Morris is identical to the one on the shelf. After a moment, he nods and sinks into an armchair. He still does not offer me a seat.

From my other pocket I take out a small box containing a raisin cake I bought at the “Beryozka” shop. His eyebrows rise, and he nods toward the armchair. Now he studies me closely from head to toe. He looks at the photographs, then back at me. This goes on for some time. Finally, satisfaction can be read on his face.

Minutes pass one after another, and I can distinctly hear the ticking of a table clock. I have never heard a clock tick so loudly. It becomes unbearable. Suddenly, to my surprise, I notice that the man is showing signs of restlessness and impatience. I feel the walls closing in on me, a wave of heat washes over me, and my mouth goes dry.

I want to say something, but I can’t find the right words. A sharp voice rings out again, but what I hear does not help.

“Why have you come?” he said.

A single phrase. He waits.

In America, I would have replied, “Why not?” But I know that here it would sound foolish. I must have a convincing reason—I emphasize: convincing. If I told him I was here because I intend to write a book, I would be out on the street within a second and, most likely, surrounded by the KGB. No, I must be careful. I have been thinking about this for a whole year and still haven’t decided what I will say.

“Because of these,” I said, pointing at the photographs lying in his lap. “I have heard so much about you. I wanted to meet you and learn more about my grandfather and my great-grandfather. I am proud of my family. I read about you in the newspapers. I had to see you.”

My tongue was completely dry.

“That’s not all,” he says.

The phrase sounds not like a question, but like a statement.

“Yes, that’s not all,” I reply. “I want to go to Kabany and see the family nest. I want to learn…”

I pause and smile.

“Uncle Lazar, I’d even like to find out how Buba made that wonderful chang,” I say, referring to the dish I remember from childhood.

Uncle Lazar tilts his head back against the chair and smiles. It seems the gates of his past have opened before him. The mention of something as simple as tangy stew has touched the old son of a bitch. I thought I detected in him a desire to talk. Will I have another chance? If Maya comes here only once a week, who else does he have to talk to? Maybe I happened to be in the right place at the right time? Maybe I’m just lucky? If only he would start talking—I wouldn’t miss my chance. If only he would start talking…

“Indeed, you need to know the secret to prepare chang. But I don’t know it. As for me, I still enjoy a cup of strong, fragrant tea. Would you refuse tea with this appetizing cake?”

I stand up quickly. He waves his hands at me. He will take care of the tea. He rises from the armchair and heads toward the kitchen, not taking his eyes off me.

“First, we’ll have tea with the cake. And then you’ll tell me about everyone in these photographs. All right?”

He stops and looks at me.

“Agreed,” I reply.

“First things first.”

He turns his back to me. I close my eyes and lean back in the armchair. I don’t dare look at my watch. A beginning has been made. From the photographs we’ll move on to his life.

I’m no longer hot. A fine shiver runs through me. I really want hot tea. I already know that we will drink a lot of tea before I leave. I study the photographs. How far can they take us? Mentally, I line them up in order. I wait for tea and cake. I am ready.

PROLOGUE.

MARCH 5, 1953.

Moscow’s liveliest street is the Arbat. It stretches from Arbat Square to Smolensk Square. The Arbat is considered the capital’s “souvenir” spot, lined with shops, restaurants, and always thronged with people. Every few blocks a huge red letter “M” looms, marking a metro station. Posters are everywhere. Slogans like “Glory to the Communist Party of the Soviet Union” constantly meet the eye.
Endless streams of people flow along the street. Politeness is an unknown concept, and pedestrians often shove one another. Yet everything is calm. Not noisy. Men wear dark jackets, women somber dresses. Everyone carries a string bag, an “avoska,” into which purchases go—if they manage to buy anything.
The usual jostling and bustle goes on day after day, except for the moment when a signal sounds from the other side of Arbat Square. An unusual signal. It’s an almost inaudible, high-pitched sound that Russians have grown used to, but foreigners find utterly unfamiliar. It resembles high-frequency vibrations that only dogs can hear. And with that sound, the Arbat is instantly transformed.
All the traffic lights change. One by one they turn red, clearing the way toward Mozhayskoye Highway. At the same moment, shops shut, doors slam. Windows in apartment buildings close, as if the occupants don’t want to witness what is about to happen. People quickly vanish into the shops that haven’t yet closed, into building entrances, into small squares—anywhere they can hide from prying eyes.
Policemen appear as if from nowhere. They swiftly take up positions, sealing off the entrances and exits to the Arbat. Some line up along the sidewalks, many of them turning their backs to the roadway, fixing their eyes on the nearby buildings. Everything obeys an order, and each man knows his place. Suddenly, the Arbat falls still. An oppressive silence descends. At first, they can only be heard. Motors hum. Then they burst into view from the direction of the Kremlin. Five enormous black cars. They gather speed and race toward the Arbat. Their headlights blind anyone who dares look at them. But this is not the ordinary white light installed on Soviet cars. These are powerful yellow beams that illuminate the road far ahead. When the driver floors the gas, a piercing horn blares. All these cars are equipped with bulletproof glass and steel plating like tanks. They are identical, down to the license plates. It’s impossible to tell one from another. As they move through the streets, they begin a planned game, changing positions and overtaking one another. Five cars play a high-speed chase where only a minute before a bustling city street had been. They have a twenty-kilometer journey from the Kremlin to a dacha in Kuntsevo. Four thousand special agents of the Ministry of State Security guard this man. People try to catch a glimpse of him, the one who has ruled their country for almost thirty years, the man known as Stalin. But nothing can be seen. Curtains hang over all the rear windows. Only one of the five cars carries a passenger.
That passenger, however, is not Stalin. It is a heavyset man with thinning hair and graying mustache, his fingers working a set of prayer beads. He stares straight ahead. He knows exactly what is happening. He already knew when the telephone rang in his third-floor office at eight o’clock that evening. The same call had already sounded in the homes of Malenkov, Beria, Bulganin, and Khrushchev. Calls to these men in the evening were routine. Stalin had a habit of phoning his closest associates at any hour, day or night. But this time the caller was Alexander Poskrebyshev, Stalin’s personal secretary. Something had happened. All five had been asked to come at once. They had had to leave their homes hastily and race at dizzying speed along the highway known to the people as the “government road.” The yellow headlight beams of the black car fall on the white snow, casting a strange, ominous orange tint on its surface. Pines, firs, and birches line the road, still bearing traces of the long winter on their branches. The man in the back seat takes no notice of the trees flashing past the window. He knows he must be ready for anything when he arrives at the dacha. He has no time to look around. He knows confusion awaits him there. The bodyguards spent several hours obediently waiting for orders, not daring to enter the master’s study. From that moment on, there will be much speculation about what happened and why. Historians will never stop arguing about the events of this time and the details of this particular day. He smiled. Let them argue and stir up the waters. He reached out, moved the curtain slightly aside. He looked out the window as the car pulled up to the wooden gates that led to the dacha’s drive. Of the five ‘Chaikas’, the car he sat in passed through the gates first. Having lived sixty years, he had always known that the moment would inevitably come when he would be first.
The smile vanished from his face, and he frowned. Uncertainty? Disputes? For others, perhaps, but not for me. For me — never. Not once in sixty years.

CHAPTER 1.

Kabanov – from 1935 this settlement was renamed Kaganovich, in honor of its famous native. This populated place lies east of the Pripyat River, a few kilometers north of Martynovichi, one hundred and twenty kilometers from Kiev.
Today it is the town of Novokashirsk. In 1893, when Lazar was born there, the authorities’ sole aspiration was to prevent an outflow of people from the area. At that time the settlement had a population of 2,600. It was unevenly divided between a Jewish majority and an Orthodox minority. Most Orthodox were engaged in farming. They were peasants, but they made up only a small fraction of the settlement’s inhabitants. More than 70 percent of Kabanov’s population were Jews. They did not work in the fields. Their main activity took place indoors, where goods were produced for sale. The most important agricultural product was hemp, widely used in making clothing and leather goods, particularly footwear. Yet all this was merely a cover. Far more income came from the illegal sale of hemp as a substance with a potent narcotic effect. Another main source of Jewish income was running taverns and producing alcohol. The means of subsistence were fairly simple, based on barter. Peasants would give part of their harvest to the people who sold them clothing, vodka, and other goods not produced locally. Cash was almost never used. Money was considered a luxury, while food and clothing were necessities that many residents of Kabanov could not afford to buy.
In Kabanov, located at the juncture of Ukraine and Byelorussia, there was little choice of work. Everything was a problem: food, clothing, and a roof over one’s head. No more than 5 percent of the population was employed in construction. For a few potatoes or a pair of boots they would hire themselves out to build outbuildings or a small hut – a tiny structure of three rooms with a total perimeter of eight by eight meters. Stones, twigs, moss, and clay were used as building materials. A small garden could be planted around the hut. Residents desperately battled winter’s inclemency and a prolonged rainy season that seemed to stretch for months on end, turning the mud so deep that booted feet sank in up to the knee. A great deal of effort went into fighting the mud.
Lazar was the third son of Sasha and Moisei Kaganovich. Like most children of the time, he was born in the cramped home of his mother and father. Within a radius of one hundred and fifty kilometers from Kabanov there were no hospitals, and the only medical assistance was provided by Gita Likhtental, who lived in the nearby settlement of Martynovichi. Gita was a large woman whose ancestors had come to Russia from Prussia. She baked bread and could offer midwifery services. It was this woman who literally sat on Sasha Kaganovich’s belly to push the robust infant out of the mother’s womb. The child was named after his grandfather, Lazar. The boy had two older brothers who showed no interest in the newborn. The eldest, Mikhail, then four years old, spent his time watching his father work. Two-year-old Yuri never left his mother’s side. In the mornings, Mama Sasha tended a small garden that surrounded their little house on all sides, trying to grow something. Mostly it was beets and potatoes. The harsh winters made fruit trees very hard to cultivate. After midday she switched to cleaning, cooking, and bargaining with peasants to obtain food for the family. Most often she cooked beet borscht, sorrel soup, or cabbage shchi. To that she added boiled potatoes, a bit of bread, and fish or a small piece of meat.
The house was small. It had only three rooms: a kitchen, where food was prepared and the family sat down at the table, and two small bedrooms. The toilet was located in a little side annex, a hole over a deep pit dug in the earth. In one bedroom, the children slept on straw mattresses laid directly on the floor. The youngest child slept in the other little room with the parents. There was almost no furniture. In the kitchen stood a massive wooden dining table. A cumbersome wooden sofa was covered with thin cushions to make it comfortable to sit on. There were also a few heavy wooden chairs with cushions on the seats and a pair of nightstands on which stood a vase and a wooden box of matches. On one wall hung a small rug. It depicted a lion and two girls, one of them holding a golden platter. The scene was executed in red, blue, green, and yellow threads and remained the only bright spot in the house. On the opposite wall a small mirror had been nailed up. It hung low, so the children could see their reflection in it. Lazar especially loved admiring himself.
Busy caring for three children and expecting a fourth, Mama Sasha took no interest in anything unconnected with her household duties. Mama Sasha was short. Her head was always tightly wrapped in a white kerchief. Most women in the settlement traditionally wore black kerchiefs, but Sasha, whose parents had moved to these parts from sunny Moldavia, disliked that color. “Too gloomy,” she said.
Long before Mama Sasha was born, her father had chosen the name Sasha, hoping for a boy, and was unwilling to acknowledge his fifth daughter. But the girl cared little. Once she had her own family, Mama Sasha devoted all her strength and care to her children. They became the meaning of her life. She did not pay her husband much attention, but he did not take offense. He was content with little. Therefore, in the home Mama Sasha was the absolute mistress and ran the household capably with an iron hand. It was no secret in the settlement that Sasha’s husband spoke of her behind her back: “She should have married the Tsar himself. She’s a born queen.” Moisei was quite capable of saying such a thing. He was not afraid of angering Mama Sasha; on the contrary, he knew she liked compliments. Such words would only flatter her. Yes, perhaps she could have become a queen, in her white kerchief. But Moisei was comfortable with his wife’s dominant position in their family, and he genuinely loved her. In truth, he treated everyone well, and in the settlement he had a reputation as the most good-natured man. He was tall, with a thick beard and luminous, watchful eyes that seemed able to stare at a single point for hours without blinking.
Moisei worked as a “shneider,” a tailor. He refused to wear spectacles, although his eyes had long weakened from the endless hours spent working with thimble and needle. He was extraordinarily hard-working, taking up his sewing when the day was just beginning and stopping only with the last rays of the setting sun. He enjoyed what he did. He was very industrious. Moisei never raised his voice, always focusing on his work. His long, thin fingers moved nimbly over the fabric while he softly hummed songs of his youth and Jewish tunes, the words of which he no longer remembered, only the melody. His father had sung in the synagogue, and music remained an inseparable part of his existence. Nothing could ever irritate Moisei, and he calmly plied his craft while his wife bustled around and the children played pranks. The parents did not need to constantly remind the children of discipline. Each child knew what was required of him, regardless of age. Even the youngest, Lazar, had his own duties. At two he was entrusted with feeding three chicks kept in a small henhouse in the back yard.
Such was the atmosphere of the little house with its tiny patch of land in which Lazar grew up.
The settlement was small as well. It had a bakery, a shoemaker’s workshop, a grocery store, a railway station, a police station, and a bookshop – which was actually a movable cart standing at the roadside. The same people who dealt in books also owned the grocery store. And the shoemaker simultaneously performed the duties of railway dispatcher. It was a light position because only a few trains stopped in Kabanov.
Lazar’s early years passed monotonously. The Kaganovich family had a multitude of relatives: cousins, aunts, uncles, brothers and sisters. Family and kinship ties were so thickly interwoven that it seemed the entire two-thousand-strong population of the settlement was related to one another. At the Jewish Passover, several tables would be set out in a row in the yard, forming a huge table about fifteen meters long. Neighbors could drop by easily and sit at the common table or bring their own little table to listen to conversations and talk themselves during the long meal of the Passover Seder, which by tradition lasted five and a half hours. Everyone who came brought something to eat, most often a potato dish.
Lazar’s closest friend, Morris Kaganovich, lived next door in a small house. He too had two older brothers. Morris’s father, also a tailor, worked with needle and thread all day long, and his mother likewise fancied herself a queen. Lazar respectfully called Morris’s father Uncle Lyovik. Uncle Lyovik would say: “That wife of mine! She spends more money than I give her. And the thing is – I never give her any at all.” Morris was Lazar’s cousin and seven years older. Morris singled out Lazar among all his numerous kin. They often spent time together, roaming the fields and having endless conversations about themselves, their parents, the village laborers, and those for whom Kabanov was a temporary refuge in search of a better life. Morris and Lazar could spend hours scratching the outlines of someone’s head on the bark of a tree with a stone, trying to make the nose the largest part of the face. Then they would hurl stones at the drawn nose until the image was completely obliterated. Sometimes they played at being the Tsar or the “terrible” Rasputin, or even their own fathers.
Every day, looking at himself in the mirror, Lazar noticed that Jews have big noses. He could study his reflection for a long time, and then try to copy it onto tree bark. But he never succeeded. “You’re no artist,” Morris would say. “Take up something else.” And Lazar did not take offense. Morris regarded his younger cousin as almost his equal. He could chatter with him about anything with understanding. And although they talked all sorts of nonsense, much left a mark on the boy’s memory. By the age of five, Lazar considered school a waste of time. He much preferred drawing faces on tree bark and making faces in front of the mirror.
The settlement had a yeshiva – a Jewish school. Unlike other schools of the time, girls and boys studied together there. Thus the Jews of Kabanov educated their children, ignoring the opinion of the Sephardic rabbi from Martynovichi.
“Only boys should study. That is written.”
“Feh,” was Sasha’s answer when she brought her youngest daughter, Roza, into the classroom. “You – Zarta!”
She used her superficial knowledge of Arabic, especially to insult other people and put them in their place. “Zarta” means “farter” in Arabic.
Non-Jewish children did not go to school at all. For them, there simply were no schools. They were just illiterate. Only Jewish children had the opportunity to study. Non-Jewish children began working in the fields from early childhood and pulled that yoke for the rest of their lives. But the peasants related to the Jewish families in a good-natured way, without malice.
From the rabbi’s teachings, Lazar understood what was most important in life: ideas that could be used to subjugate other people and distribute wealth and income. For Morris, school had an important significance for another reason. He became deeply absorbed in studying the Pentateuch of Moses, that is, the Old Testament, and knew it almost by heart. For Morris, Jewish law was the reason for existence.
Lazar, however, had no time for study. He had no time left for people living next door, nor for his own father, whom he considered a weak-willed and worthless personality. Lazar looked upon his mother as a victim, someone who failed to understand the main thing in life. Life itself, not mere survival. It was unbelievable that people might spend their whole lives here and die here. That seemed like madness. Lazar resolved to exert all his strength to avoid such a fate. Growing up and gathering strength for the future, he would focus his attention on the people around him. He would patiently observe.
Lazar carefully studied his father’s work and adopted all his skills. He also took an interest in other people. Uncle Lyovik, Morris’s father, was at that time engaged in leather-working and made shoe lasts. He was a short man with a goatee. He wore pince-nez, which made his eyes appear larger than they actually were. Lazar often asked himself why he needed pince-nez, because he mostly saw them resting on his uncle’s forehead.
Uncle Lyovik, like a machine, was constantly in motion. He proved to be a successful entrepreneur. His method was simple. He would spend several months making lasts, sorting them by size, and then, when the price rose, he would travel around the nearby towns, selling the lasts to shoemakers. Or, if circumstances permitted and he had enough means, he himself would make and sell shoes.
Uncle Lyovik often traveled outside Kabanov. He was one of the few who did. Lazar’s father never even dreamed of such trips; his whole life took place within a radius of thirty meters from his little house. But Uncle Lyovik would buy up leather and other goods and, after a three-month life on the road, return to Kabanov to adjust and rework his purchases for subsequent sale. Then the cycle would begin again. As he grew, Lazar more and more often began traveling with his uncle to the nearby towns. He was taller and sturdier than his brothers, and broad-shouldered.
“It’s Gita’s fault,” the neighbors said, referring to the midwife. “She must have poured a bit of Prussian blood into Mama Sasha. That fellow doesn’t look Ukrainian. He’s too sullen.”
Lazar could stand in front of the mirror for hours, “perfecting” his sullenness. He knitted his brows, narrowed his eyes, thrust out his lower lip – everything that, to him, embodied indifference. Mama Sasha viewed these grimaces as childish amusement. But for Lazar it was not a simple game.
Uncle Lyovik liked it when Lazar set off on the road with him. He handled the work well, was quick-witted, and did not rave about books like his own son Morris. But Lazar had no sense of humor. “He’s still young. He’ll learn. It will come in handy in life,” Uncle Lyovik would remark. They would harness the horse to the drozhki and set off. Most of their journeys lasted only a few days, but for Lazar that was enough. By the age of ten, Lazar was already considered an excellent helper. He delivered leather goods, carefully ensuring that in each town every shoemaker received what was due him. He liked this occupation more than studying at school. He regarded study as a waste of time. Lazar went to school only when forced. He had no choice. Mama Sasha insisted on schooling. But at the first opportunity he would dash to Uncle Lyovik’s departing drozhki. Who could stop him? Father? His father forbade nothing to anyone. Mother? But she was too busy with the youngest child, Roza, to notice everything. His two brothers? They loved going to school. Among other things, it also freed them from any work. Cousin Morris? He was absorbed in his studies, and besides, he wore spectacles. Who, thought Lazar, needs a helper in spectacles? A boss, like Uncle Lyovik, was allowed to wear spectacles, not a helper.

In 1904, war broke out between Russia and Japan. Japan attacked Port Arthur, a Russian naval base in the Pacific. In 1905, a 300,000-strong tsarist army lost 120,000 men at the Battle of Mukden. The Baltic Fleet undertook a long voyage and arrived on the shores of the Far East, where it was attacked by Japanese torpedo boats. This happened on the approaches to Vladivostok, in the narrow Tsushima Strait between Korea and Japan. Of the twenty warships, seventeen were sunk. The remaining three escaped by sailing to neutral ports in China.

The Russian army was shamefully losing the war. The entire political system was set in motion. The front needed reinforcements. Jews had previously been exempt from military conscription, but the tsar ordered that, given the looming catastrophe, they too must defend the Motherland. Mikhail had already been drafted into the army and was on his way to Kiev. Morris received his summons, and Yuri was next in line. Lazar was still too young for conscription age. Many Jews resorted to various tricks and ruses to avoid serving in the army. Some hastily got baptized and converted to the Orthodox faith, hoping later to sneak into some inconspicuous rear-echelon position. Others bribed officials to avoid the front. But this did not always work. Jews also resorted to extreme measures. Lazar’s cousin, Herman, shot off the big toe on his right foot. That proved insufficient. So, he shot off the big toe on his left foot. But he was drafted into the army anyway. Three months later, he was killed in Manchuria.

With great difficulty, only 20,000 Jews were conscripted into the Russian army, of whom 18,000 surrendered to the Japanese as prisoners of war immediately upon arriving at the combat zone. The American Jewish billionaire Jacob Schiff, who had provided Japan with war loans on favorable terms, hated Russia with a ferocious hatred. With his own personal money, Jacob Schiff organized courses in Japanese POW camps to train terrorists, who underwent a full course of ideological indoctrination, conspiratorial work, and subversive activities. When the war ended and the prisoners of war returned home, the return from abroad of tens and hundreds of thousands of fully trained saboteurs and terrorists with very specific assignments from beyond the cordon was the real reason for the attempted coup d’état of 1905, and by no means the living conditions of the people, who lived as they always had and paid no attention to anything.

In 1907, Lazar worked in the town of Mozyr, a hundred kilometers from Kabanov. At his uncle’s, he learned how to make shoe lasts and began earning money in a cobbler’s workshop. He was fourteen years old. Unlike his older brothers, he refused his bar mitzvah (the Jewish rite of initiating a boy into adulthood, performed at age 13). He was stubborn, and no one could force him. The family had enough problems without that. Mama Sasha continued her barter trade, while Moishe squandered their meager household possessions. Mikhail and Yuri returned home from the war and went to work at the steel plant in Gomel. The family was beginning to fall apart; more and more relatives were leaving their familiar places, never to return. Who had time for prayers? Lazar never understood why one should pray. If the Jews were the chosen people, why didn’t their God listen to their prayers and ease their lives? Ever since Lazar could remember, his family had always been in need of something. Who, in that situation, had time for books and prayers?

Lazar was satisfied with his work. He would usually say to Mama Sasha: “This is good work. People need shoes, and to make them, you need lasts. We will never go hungry.” And Moishe would merely grumble, burying himself in the Talmud.

But astonishing news came from the north. A Jew named Lev Davidovich Bronstein, under the surname Trotsky, had become a well-known figure in St. Petersburg. Everyone in Kabanov knew him: Lev Davidovich was the son of a prosperous Jewish landowner from Yanovka, a village in the south of Kherson province. It was also common knowledge that in the southern steppes of the Russian Empire, the tsarist government encouraged Jewish landowners. Lev Davidovich, like many who entered the political arena and achieved power at that time, took another name. He chose the first surname that came to mind when he was arrested: Trotsky. It was the surname of his prison warden in Odessa.

In 1903, London—which had always been a center of global anti-Russian policy and always financed any anti-Russian organizations—hosted the Second Congress of the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party. In reality, this congress was a continuous bout of intra-party squabbling. The famous split of the party into two factions occurred: the Bolsheviks and the Mensheviks. The leader of the Bolsheviks, Vladimir Ulyanov, proclaimed that “an underground party aiming to overthrow tsarism must remain strictly centralized,” while the leader of the Mensheviks, Yuri Martov, defended his view that “our party is not exclusively a party of professional revolutionaries, and that it must be open to all who recognize its program.”

The Jewish population of Kabanov also defined its position. Although Lenin had a Jewish grandfather, he did not consider himself a full-fledged Jew. There were rumors that he was a Tatar, and Moishe would often repeat: “If you scratch Lenin well enough, Tatar blood will flow from him.” Therefore, Jewish support was reserved for only one true Jew—Trotsky. Trotsky, however, had thrown in his lot with the Menshevik camp. But there was an opinion that Trotsky had done this rashly and because he did not condone Lenin’s coarse behavior. Moishe expressed himself on this matter as follows: “A Tatar is always a Tatar.”

Jews eagerly threw themselves into the growing revolutionary struggle. Jewish artisans united into a Jewish revolutionary organization called the “Bund,” from which all the Social Democrats later branched off—that is, both Bolsheviks and Mensheviks. Mikhail, just as inconspicuous and indecisive as their father, joined the “Bund.” His main aspiration was to survive the unfolding meat grinder. Lazar would sit at the feet of the adults and listen to their discussions about events in the country. For many, these events brought great problems.

“Just leave us in peace,” some said. “The tsar is bad, but the revolutionaries are even worse!”

Others believed a new era was coming. They felt it and hoped that now a new life would begin for them and that a holiday would come to their street.

“The future will be so beautiful!”

They awaited this future like the coming of the Jewish Messiah right here, to Kabanov.

Uncle Lyovik was tormented by fears. What will the Bolsheviks bring? — Unknown. Morris shared his anxiety. They discussed every possible scenario and went so far as to make plans in case people like Lenin or Trotsky came to power.

Lazar readily memorized everything he heard. It was clear to him that Trotsky was an unbalanced man but, apparently, knew what he was talking about. Lazar realized he would have to figure out a great deal for himself before making a decision. He had already heard that many revolutionaries were arrested and even sent into exile. But they had learned a great deal by now and had come to an understanding of how to subjugate the government. Fortunately for them, Nicholas II took no decisive measures against them.

The revolutionary underground was raising its head. On Easter 1911, a boy named Yushchinsky was murdered in Kiev. Persistent rumors circulated that he had been ritually sacrificed by Jewish sectarians, and on September 14, 1911, Prime Minister P. A. Stolypin himself was assassinated in Kiev. The murderer, Mordechai Bogrov, was a Jew and Stolypin’s bodyguard.

Kiev became the setting for yet another drama, which Lazar witnessed firsthand.

A very important meeting was being prepared by Jews in Kiev, about which it was said that “this rally will greatly influence our lives, therefore everyone must take part.” Uncle Lyovik and several other people from Kabanov also intended to go. Lazar decided to join them, although Moishe dissuaded him: “You’ll call misfortune down upon yourself there, and miseries will pursue you all your life.”

Mikhail, as a member of the Bolshevik party, had already been arrested. And although he was kept in prison for only two days, the thought that trouble could befall any of his sons greatly frightened Moishe. But as always, Moishe gave in. This time, the pretext was Lazar’s age.

“He is already eighteen. A man. What can you say to an eighteen-year-old? They already know everything. At eighteen, I was already married. I had obligations to my family. And I had no time for such foolish ventures as rallies.”

Mama Sasha also did not object. The youngest daughter occupied all her time and thoughts. Roza turned out to be the best student in school, and every day she brought home more and more questions and homework assignments. Mama Sasha tried her best to help her daughter with her studies. While the family skeptically assessed the upcoming trip, Lyovik and Lazar got ready for the road. For Lazar, this was his first trip to Kiev.

As the droshky approached the suburbs of Kiev, Lazar could still hear Morris’s voice describing what he would see. Morris had even drawn a map with comments.

“Here is the golden dome shining in the sun. It is the Cathedral of Saint Sophia, built in 1037. Kiev is an ancient city, famous for its archaeological and historical monuments. The city has about a thousand streets and stands on seven hills, from which a beautiful view of the Dnieper opens up. On the bank, a monument has been erected to Prince Vladimir, who, they say, was half-Jewish and established Christianity in Rus’.”

Uncle Lyovik chimed in as well. He recalled Gogol’s words: “How beautiful is the Dnieper in calm weather!” and explained that this was typical Gogolian sarcasm, because Gogol himself knew very well how inhospitable and gloomy the Dnieper could be for most of the year. But now it was spring, and Kreshchatyk welcomed them with the riotous blooming of lilacs. Enormous chestnut trees stretched along both sides of the city’s main street. They passed Kiev University, with its red walls. Then they drove past the Cathedral of St. Vladimir, Askold’s Tomb, and turned onto a small street that had no name. They stopped in front of a house without a number. The meeting was to be held in a small room of this building, which served as a synagogue. About two hundred people crammed into the room, although usually no more than a hundred worshippers gathered here. Those who could not squeeze inside were asked to come back in an hour, when the second meeting would begin. Women were not admitted.

Lazar managed to push his way forward. On the stage, there was only a wooden table. No chairs, no posters, no slogans, nothing—just a single table. The room filled with the excited hum of the assembled crowd, but the noise immediately died down as soon as a short man in pince-nez, with a huge nose with a hump, emerged from a side door and climbed onto the stage. A cap was pulled down over his forehead, and boots flapped on his thin legs. A bunch of slovenly dressed men, with faces that seemed idiotic to Lazar, followed like a shadow behind the man they called Trotsky. He turned out to be smaller than Lazar had imagined him. Lazar had always thought that a leader, or a candidate for a leader, must be tall. It was said that Lenin was almost two meters tall. Could that be true? But this man turned out to be small. However, when he took off his cap, a shock of black curly hair appeared, and Trotsky seemed taller. His hair looked as if a comb had never touched it. He had a small beard and mustache. Trotsky, in his whole appearance, reminded Lazar of his father, and Lazar even thought his voice would prove to be similar. As soon as Trotsky opened his mouth, Lazar realized that in this respect, he and Moishe were nothing alike. Trotsky’s voice gained volume in just a few seconds and remained at that pitch until the end of his speech. No, this man no longer reminded him of the quiet and gentle Moishe Kaganovich. He turned out to be passionate, self-confident, and resolute. He began: “I will answer your questions even before you ask them.” No greeting, not even a smile. Straight to the point.

“The Soviet is the embryo of a revolutionary government. The Soviet creates a free press. The Soviet organizes street patrols to ensure the safety of citizens. The post office, railway stations—in short, everything is under the authority of the Soviet. But all this—is for you. For the Jews. You are the Soviet. The first wave of the next revolution will inevitably lead to the creation of Soviets across the entire country. You are the Soviets. And these Soviets are Jewish. Petersburg has five hundred thousand workers. Half of them are part of your new Soviet. These are factory and mill workers. And the Soviet stands guard over precisely your interests!”

Trotsky paused and swept his gaze across the assembled crowd. A man with a long gray beard and a book under his arm stood up on the side and pointed his finger upwards:

“I have studied Marx. I know that no society disappears until new material conditions emerge, new productive forces capable of displacing the outdated ones. Consequently, all backward societies, and ours among them…” A murmur ran through the crowd. No one liked what was said. No one wanted to hear a reminder of their wretched existence.

“…that backward societies must pass through the same stages of development as the progressive countries of the West, and that the next stage of development must be capitalism, with its bourgeois revolution.”

The man took a sip of water. Only a few understood what had been said. The majority simply grimaced. What is he talking about? Will this put more food on the table? And anyway, why have we gathered here? Lazar observed the man with the goatee and bushy hair. Trotsky did not stir. His eyes gleamed, and his hand was stretched forward.

“And why should we follow that path? Who will make the revolution? — The Russian bourgeoisie won’t do it! The revolution will be made by the workers and peasants. And they will make the revolution despite their bourgeoisie, and even against it!”

Again, a murmur ran through the audience. Lazar heard a voice behind him:

“Damn! What’s going on here? I thought he was a supporter of Marxism. Or do Jews among themselves now think differently?”

Shouts rang out from all around:

“Jews are now divided. Jews are no longer a single whole!”

Trotsky ignored the protests from the floor.

“Workers and peasants have different social and historical heritages. The peasantry in Russia significantly outnumbers the working class. But they lack clarity in understanding what is happening, and therefore they must submit to the urban proletariat. They will have to face a choice: to remain with the tsar or to fight on our side and on the side of the workers.”

Discontented voices were heard again.

“The Jews, together with the working class, are the only social class capable of liberating Russia. But why should the workers fight if the fruits of their victory will be enjoyed by the Jews? The workers won’t go for this! The workers will not be satisfied if a Jewish bourgeoisie comes to power as well. Therefore, we are transforming the bourgeois revolution into a communist one—hence the concept of ‘permanent revolution.’”

The man with the long beard rose from his seat again. His question consisted of two words, and he practically shouted them:

“Communist revolution?!”

Trotsky turned in his direction and smiled. For the first time, he lowered his voice. People had to lean forward to hear his reply, which sounded almost like a whisper:

“Yes, but in such a vast country as Russia, the revolution cannot be confined to national borders. Let us suppose that as a result of the revolution, the Russian proletariat has come to power. What, under such conditions, is our own fate? Can we develop? We can, but this depends not only on Russia, but on the spread of communist revolutions throughout the world.”

Trotsky finished his speech, turned around, and walked off the stage. No “goodbye,” no concluding remarks. He said what he wanted and left.

The crowd began to disperse. People exchanged opinions, many shook their heads, some smiled, but most understood nothing. Everything that had happened seemed unreal. Lazar stepped outside. The fresh air made it easy to breathe. He found his uncle, discussing something in a small circle of people. They spoke in low voices, which was uncharacteristic for Russia, where people usually expressed their feelings sincerely and passionately. Lazar both understood and did not understand what he had heard. Workers would control the revolutionary events. That was the only thing he grasped: not students, not the intelligentsia, and not the peasants, but only the workers. Those who work side by side with one another. An organized force. — Then those who lead the workers will have the opportunity to lead everything. Things began to clarify in Lazar’s head. He knew he was on the right path. So, first, he must become a worker, and consequently—a participant in the organized force, and then things would become clearer.

The whole way back to Kabanov, they were under the impression of what they had seen and heard. Lazar barely spoke, while his uncle was tormented by doubts. Indeed, Trotsky had spoken interestingly, but would this be acceptable for him, Lyovik, for his entire family, and for the residents of Kabanov? Everyone knows the tsar. But who are Trotsky, Lenin, and Martov? “I don’t know, I don’t know,” he repeated the whole way. Then he began to chuckle: “Sitting between two stools.” He turned to Lazar: “Serving both God and mammon.” Lazar looked attentively at his uncle, a man he loved and valued more than his own father. He surveyed the small gray beard and the small, blinking eyes. Uncle Lyovik was short in stature, but, like Trotsky, he concealed within himself a hidden energy and lust for power. Lazar had more in common with Uncle Lyovik, while Morris more closely resembled Moishe Kaganovich. It was all difficult to understand, and Lazar preferred simplicity and clarity. There were so many people around, so many relatives. He could do without many of them. Uncle Lyovik laughed; his quiet chuckle grew into a loud guffaw. It was difficult to make Lazar laugh. He usually seemed overly serious, and many therefore considered him lacking a sense of humor. He saw no great reason for merriment. Life gave no reason for laughter and joy. Nevertheless, a short time later, Lazar was infected by his uncle’s laughter. He did not understand why Uncle Lyovik was laughing. His uncle looked at Lazar: “It has only just struck me like a thunderbolt: Trotsky, Lenin, Martov, the tsar, the tsarina… Who cares about them? I look at this question from only one point of view. And you, my nephew, must learn to read between the lines. I will say…”. And he glanced up at the starry sky stretching above them and said: “I will say… the main thing is that Jews should always be well-off. That is what I will say.” He looked around to make sure they were alone on the road, and that no one could hear them, and laughed again: “Who cares? The main thing is that Jews should always live well!”

When they finally reached Kabanov, dawn was breaking over the hills. The clip-clop of the horses’ hooves and the cool air woke Lazar. He slowly opened his eyes and saw that his uncle was still asleep. The horses dragged the droshky along the familiar road.

Ukraine was the agricultural center of a vast country. Its territory also contained many large industrial enterprises. Lazar could find a suitable niche for himself somewhere in this place, in this country, in this world. Lazar’s thoughts returned again to what he had heard the previous evening from the short man in the cap pulled down over his forehead, and from the even smaller man with the gray beard, now dozing beside him. He felt that both of them were right. Let them hold the banner under which he would march. They complemented and understood each other well. They would both be useful to him. “The main thing is that Jews should always be well-off.”

Since then, he became even more attached to his uncle, watching what he did and listening carefully to everything he said. Many residents of the settlement had no clear opinion on what the Jews should do or whom to support. His father never expressed a view on the matter at all. The brothers were far away, and Mom Sasha was entirely occupied with Rosa. Mom Sasha was happy that at least one of her children would stay away from politics. That was not a woman’s business. For his part, Morris had already decided that in time he would leave. He would make his way to Minsk, cross Poland, and then cross the Baltic Sea to Riga or Liepaja. There he would board a ship that would carry him to the other side of the Atlantic, to America. Many Jews at that time were planning to leave Russia. And indeed, even before the revolution, four million Jews had moved to the United States, two hundred thousand to Great Britain, and sixty thousand set off to prepare a Zionist state in Palestine. America seemed to Morris the most attractive destination. Although he did not yet know what he would devote his life to, he was firmly resolved that Russia was not the place for him.

Every evening at supper, the family discussed whether Uncle Lyovik would leave with the family or not. Lazar very much hoped that Uncle Lyovik would not go anywhere, but he sensed that all these discussions were merely a prelude to inevitable events. The decision had already been made, and the endless talk served only to delay the time of departure.

Lazar continued to work in Kabany and the surrounding area, grabbing any job he could find. For a time he was a tailor’s apprentice, sewing buttons onto coats and jackets. Then he had to deliver a cart piled with goods from the owner to the customer. If there was no work, he spent all his time at meetings of every revolutionary group he could find. With bated breath he listened to all the speeches, weighing who had said what and why. At every opportunity he would go to Kiev, because Kiev was a centre of revolutionary activity. He could even walk nearly two hundred kilometres there and back if a well-known activist was due to speak. But above all, he had to learn from the man he had seen at his very first meeting — Trotsky. Trotsky knew how to use propaganda. It seemed that Trotsky had the answers to all questions.

Lazar vividly remembered the second meeting with Trotsky. It also took place in Kiev, this time at a Jewish gathering in the basement of some warehouse, only a hundred metres from the police station. Lazar was struck by the fact that Trotsky had absolutely no sense of fear. Open defiance and provocative behaviour were an integral part of his nature. At this meeting Trotsky poured beans onto a table.

“Look at these beans,” he said. “The one grain in the centre represents the Tsar.”

Everyone present leaned forward, trying to anticipate what this young man in small spectacles and with a wild mane of hair would do next.

“He is surrounded by ministers; just beyond are the priests and capitalists. All the rest are workers and peasants.”

Those in the hall nodded with understanding and smiled. It was so simple and clear. And it was true. But what was revolution? Something new? Something they did not yet know?

Lazar felt uneasy. It could not be that simple. It was something quite different. While the other listeners murmured in agreement and nodded, Lazar did not stir. He watched the expression on Trotsky’s face. Trotsky was playing with the crowd. He gave them a little treat for their self-esteem, and then suddenly exposed their naivety and narrow-mindedness. In this way he underscored who was master here, or the potential master.

Trotsky raised his head and surveyed the gathering. On his face was the same resoluteness that had so struck and stayed with Lazar at the first meeting. But from the look in his eyes it was impossible to tell what the man was thinking. Abruptly he stretched out both hands towards the table.

“And now I mix them all up.”

And he quickly began to mix up the beans. Everything became jumbled. The beans scattered in all directions. Trotsky did not even turn towards his listeners. He fixed his piercing gaze on the table with the scattered beans and said in a whisper:

“Now tell me, where is the Tsar?”

Suddenly he wheeled around sharply and walked out. Those gathered did not move. There was complete silence.

Lazar did not have to think long about what he should do. The answer, at least for him, was now finally clear. He had to make his choice and decide whose side he was on. It was at that very moment that he resolved to be like Trotsky, regardless of the party this man formally belonged to.

By the end of 1911 new problems had arisen. The big family gathered for a family council. The only way out seemed to be departure to America. The situation in the country was heating up. Rumours circulated that if Lenin came to power, persecutions would follow such as were never dreamt of under the Tsar.

“Don’t you understand?” Morris said. “We know what to expect from the Tsar. But Lenin and his people? No. Better to deal with what you know. Under the Tsar at least we can own some property. Under the Bolsheviks we will have nothing.”

Like everyone in Kabany, they understood that the Tsar would soon be finished, and this was only 1911.

It was decided that Uncle Lyovik and his family, including Morris, would head west, while his parents and sister would remain. Lazar would have preferred the complete opposite, but he kept silent. After attending revolutionary meetings, he had already understood that there was no room for sentimentality in revolution. If that was their decision, then let them follow it. They had made their choice, and he had made his; the rest did not concern him.

On the day of Uncle Lyovik’s and Morris’s departure, Lazar resolved to stay as far away from Kabany as possible. He did not want to give in to emotion at parting. He could not allow himself to show weakness by displaying his feelings. He would rather save them for the birth of a new Russia. He would husband his energy for work in that direction rather than waste it on family matters. He had firmly absorbed Trotsky’s lesson: “Do not fritter yourself away on trifles — only productive work!”

So on the day Uncle Lyovik’s family left, Lazar went to Vilki, where a meeting of Bolsheviks was being held. And although the meeting was set for the evening, Lazar set off early in the morning because he sought to avoid the emotional day of farewell in Kabany. The moment the sun rose, he poked his head out the door. Morris was already waiting for him. A smile lit up his face. Morris had guessed what Lazar was planning and had outmanoeuvred him. Morris wanted to talk one last time with his cousin, come what may. After so many years together, some questions still remained.

“Are you waiting for me?” Lazar asked at once.

“You knew I’d come.”

Lazar nodded. And the two of them crossed the road and sat down at the edge of the woods under a spreading oak. If they were to have a conversation, Lazar thought, let it remain between the two of them. Speaking at meetings is one thing, but private conversations should be conducted simply.

“It would have been foolish of me to ask you to come here,” Morris said smugly.

Lazar felt the breath of the chilly morning. Dew lay everywhere. He bent down to the wet grass and picked up a sharp-edged stone lying in it.

“Will you stay long in Kabany?” Morris asked.

“No.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t pester Rosa or your parents with questions?”

“Why not—you can ask,” Lazar replied without anger.

He began to trace a circle on the trunk of the tree.

“But you can guess how I feel. I cannot and I do not want to stay here. They will survive, with me or without me.”

“And how will you survive?”

Morris was genuinely interested, unlike the other relatives who asked perfunctory questions, poking their noses into other people’s lives just to have something to talk about.

With the sharp edge of the stone on the tree trunk, Lazar traced eyes, a nose, a mouth. Then he placed the stone into Morris’s palm and pressed it with his own hand. He felt the thin, fragile bones of his cousin. His own palms were huge and his hands strong, and he easily enfolded Morris’s small hand.

“Thank you, thank you.”

Morris, in turn, placed his free hand on Lazar’s and squeezed it. He felt the pulse beating and looked into the cold brown eyes of his younger cousin. But in those eyes there was neither fear nor emotion. Morris wanted to tell Lazar to be always cautious, but he could not do it. He already knew then that this advice would be more useful to those who would have dealings with Lazar. It was those people who would need to be cautious.

Lazar abruptly snatched his hand back. Suddenly a chill seemed to run through him. He turned away and hurled the stone at the tree. The stone flew wide. He bent down and picked up another stone. He took aim again and hit the nose he had drawn. He continued picking up stones and flinging them at the tree until the picture was completely obliterated.

Morris walked over to the tree.

“Who is that? The Tsar? Russian soldiers? Or me?”

Lazar laughed in reply:

“Anyone at all.”

Morris returned to Lazar and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“You’ll let me know how you are, yes?”

Lazar nodded.

“You will hear about me yet. I am sure of it.”

Morris tried to smile, but no smile came.

“Well, all right. Now I can be at ease about you. Now it’s time to go.”

He wanted to say more but did not know exactly what. Lazar continued to look at his cousin, the second most important person in his life after Uncle Lyovik. He too needed to answer something, but no words came. He only managed to force out a curt “Yes.”

Morris turned and headed back across the road to the house. They had already begun to gather there. Much still remained to be done. Lazar sank to the ground. He wanted to send some words through Morris to Uncle Lyovik, but he did not know exactly what. More likely, that he would miss him. Of that Lazar was certain. He would miss Uncle Lyovik.

But by the time he finally found the right words, Morris was already stepping over the threshold. Lazar watched the door close and then strode off along the road. He would not return until nightfall.

In Mozyr he joined the Bolshevik Party. It turned out to be a simple matter. He merely signed his name on a piece of paper with a list of names, and they gave him a membership card. He was appointed organizer. He was young, full of vigor, and firmly believed in the party’s goals, in what it needed. He began to imitate Trotsky’s manner: sometimes calm and thoughtful, and at times sharp and explosive.

In Kabany many residents were already preparing to leave for abroad. It seemed that it could not be otherwise. They sensed an inevitable clash between their accustomed existence and the new thing that Lazar was striving toward. Mama Sasha and Moisey also made their choice: they would not go anywhere. After all, certain family belongings had been entrusted to their care, and, most importantly, there were no extra mouths to feed. Yuri and Mikhail were already living on their own, earning their own keep, and rarely visited their parents. In fact, five months had already passed without any news from the sons. But that did not worry them. Roza, the youngest, remained at home with them, and Lazar, apparently, would soon leave too. The three of them would manage. Why abandon acquired possessions, even if the children had gone somewhere? On the contrary, the children would know they had a home, and if they needed it, they could always return. Let the home remain forever a guiding star in their minds. And they would always remember it.

Nothing kept Lazar in Kabany. He had to grow rapidly. If he did not act now, he would bury himself forever in this Kabany. His membership in the Bolshevik Party meant a lot to Lazar. It was a party of a handful of intellectuals fighting for “the truth.” And he would force himself to fight all other groupings, including the Socialist-Revolutionaries, Mensheviks, Bundists, and even if necessary, the Zionists, even though all of them were represented primarily by Jews. It was a battle for world ideological leadership among the Jewish factions. Nothing could stop him. Lazar was confident that he was ready for this struggle, but first he had to leave Kabany. Only he had to leave quickly, without sniveling, as he had once done when Uncle Levik and Morris had departed. But this time he did not have to say goodbye at all. He did not need reproachful maternal glances and judgmental paternal reasoning. Nor did he need the arrogant look of sixteen-year-old Roza, looking at him as if he were a criminal. He loved his sister, especially admiring her beauty: her jet-black eyes and matching black hair. She looked like no one else in the large extended family. Many of them were outright repulsive in appearance. But Roza was an exception. With classical features, as if carved from marble, she resembled an Egyptian queen rather than a village girl. But unlike the ruler of the Nile, she did not behave like a queen. Roza was untalkative, as if absorbed in herself and entirely occupied with her studies. She dreamed of becoming a doctor. Lazar both approved of her choice and doubted its correctness. It was praiseworthy that she thought of others, but at the same time, he reasoned, it would be helpful for her to think about herself as well. After all, without that quality she would not achieve success.

In his last days before departure he was surrounded by his father, mother, sister, and numerous relatives still remaining in Kabany, who constantly hovered around the little house. He was tormented by tearful parting words, lamentations, kisses, and advice, advice, advice. The last thing he needed was other people’s advice. Soon the whole country would be a land of Soviets. All the advice he would ever need, he would give to himself, and only himself.

Before leaving he walked a lot around the district, watching others load their belongings and set off on their journey. Those who were staying exchanged their shabby furniture for carts or potatoes, counting on a long trip. They were heading in different directions, but in their minds there was one thing—service to their people: some were heading south through Moldavia, and in time—to Italy; some were traveling west through Minsk and Poland. And who knows if these people would ever meet again or at least hear of one another? It would be better if they never saw each other again. What would they talk about? And would they even want to talk?

Lazar made his final decision. He would not waste time on his last day in Kabany. He would simply pack his things and go. He would gather the barest necessities—and he didn’t need much—pack them into the small knapsack he’d bought in Kiev, and leave calmly, or at least pretend to be calm. He would find work. He had to. After all, he was a Bolshevik. Wouldn’t that help open any door for him?

Shortly before sunrise, Lazar stood on the road in front of his house. There was no need to leave any notes to say “goodbye.” They would all understand. They had to understand. And if they hadn’t understood yet and would never understand, that was their problem, and it didn’t depend on him. Soon he was already walking down the road. It seemed unbelievable that he did not look back even for a moment. Near the outskirts of the town, he stopped and finally looked back. He saw the little house where he had grown up. The house was sunk in darkness, and only in the kitchen window a candle burned, lit in honor of the Jewish Sabbath. It would go out at the first glimmers of light. He stood for a while, watching as the sun slowly rose. The flame of the candle flickered, as if someone had blown on it, and disappeared, leaving behind only a thin wisp of smoke.

CHAPTER 2.

Lazar trudged on foot about a hundred and fifty kilometers to Kiev. There was almost no traffic on the road. A peasant in a cart loaded with crates of chickens stopped and gave Lazar a ride for about thirty kilometers, until he himself needed to turn off the main road. This man asked no questions and took two potatoes in exchange for the favor. On the outskirts of Kiev, Lazar stopped at a textile factory warehouse. They needed physically resilient workers there. That was how he got his first job on the path to a new life. Lazar gave the impression of a strong man. He had a large build, with powerful arms, shoulders, and a mighty neck. Besides that, the man who hired him was a Party member himself. And among Party Jews, it was customary to always show concern for their fellow believers. By night, Lazar met with other communists to discuss what had happened or had not yet happened in the country. It took him only a few months to understand that work and meetings alone were still very little. He was young, energetic, and full of ambition. He felt his whole nature resisting taking orders from others. His parents could obey others, but not he. He was going to strive to achieve what he himself needed.

On assignment from the Party, he began organizing a Bolshevik cell among the Russian workers. This was an illegal activity, but much of what was happening in the country at that time had long been illegal. The Jewish trade union was carrying out preparatory work for a strike. However, Lazar, in his section, did not call for a strike. He did not want to. He organized the cell, as he was instructed, and waited for a convenient opportunity to move forward. And the paths forward were not yet defined by those to whom he was subordinate. But someone, somewhere, gave the order to stage a strike. There was no necessity for it, Lazar thought, and therefore it was foolish. He tried to argue with the supporters of the strike: “We cannot move forward without strengthening our ranks.” But no one heard him. The strike unfolded and was quickly suppressed by the authorities. By then, Lazar had been fired. The one who organizes and leads, in case of failure, must be the first to leave. Now he had learned that. The workers returned to their places, and he set out on the road again. It was his “fault,” no matter what.

He moved to Kiev, where he found work at a leather factory. Here he was hired not because he was a Bolshevik, but simply because he was better than others: he knew how to work with leather. Uncle Lyovik had taught him this trade well. It is usually difficult to find young and resilient people who know their way around curing and selling leather. This time, however, everything was going to be different. He decided to stand apart from Party activity at the factory. He would do only what he himself deemed necessary. The previous lesson had served him well. People cannot be trusted. If something needs to be done, do it yourself. Everyone fancies himself a leader and a guide, but in reality, there are only a few real leaders.

Over the next two years, Lazar continued working at the leather factory, outwardly doing what he was hired for, while actively carrying out Party work outside the factory, trying to keep away from the local factory activists and not to spoil the place where he worked.

With the start of the First World War, it was important for him not to stand out, so as not to end up at the front. For two years, he succeeded in this, but by the end of 1916, the situation changed. As a member of the Kiev Committee of the Bolsheviks, Lazar had to come out with a condemnation of the “imperialist war.” His mighty figure on the podium made an impression. He grew a small beard in the style of Trotsky and wore the same kind of grimy cap. But he did not manage to imitate his hero’s wild mane of hair, since his own hair had begun to thin. And unlike Lev Davidovich, Lazar now weighed around a hundred kilograms. His sturdy figure commanded respect, and he took full advantage of this circumstance. He immediately switched to high notes, just as Trotsky had done several years before:

“The Tsar is a worthless personality. His wife is a hysteric. He has a son who, fortunately, will not reach adulthood, and a so-called holy elder Grigory, who calls himself Rasputin, but in reality is a common debaucher. And these people rule us against our will. We do not need newly seized lands. We do not need gold and diamonds. We do not need banquets on golden dishes. We need bread.”

His first speech also became his last, as he was arrested and exiled from Kiev. Once again, he had to walk the road, this time heading east, further, as he hoped, from the curious eyes and ears of those who sought to curb him. For the sake of conspiracy, Lazar changed his last name from Kaganovich to Stomachin, and his Party comrade supplied him with false documents. Then he settled in Yuzovka, two hundred kilometers from Kiev. He figured that the farther he found himself, the lower the risk would be in maintaining ties with Kiev. Besides, Yuzovka was considered a hotbed of Bolshevik activity. It was located below Makeyevka, east of Melitopol, and not far from the Sea of Azov. The warm climate and proximity to the sea proved pleasant additions. In exchange for the false documents, Lazar was entrusted with the task of winning Russian workers over to the Bolsheviks and preventing them from following their own leaders.

It took three weeks to reach Yuzovka. The narrow roads were packed to capacity with people and carts. The Jewish population was moving deeper into the country, farther from the western borders where military actions were unfolding. The Jews always kept away from the actual war. The war was flaring up in earnest, and revolutionary activity was unfolding ever more strongly throughout Russia.

With Turkey’s and Italy’s entry into the war, Germany was able to focus its attention on the East. This created tension in Russia. The front line was very overstretched, which caused alarm, and the Tsar decided to personally take the place of Supreme Commander-in-Chief.

Meanwhile, Lazar had problems of his own. He had to travel a lot around the country. Relaying from one conveyance to another was common practice at that time. And as long as one had a few rubles in one’s pocket or some food in one’s shoulder bag, getting from one place to another was no trouble. Even when it was necessary to walk, there was always someone on the road ready to offer a ride and while away the journey with conversation.

Lazar moved to Yekaterinoslav (Dnepropetrovsk), situated on the Dnieper south of Kharkov, about six hundred kilometers from Kabanovo. Here he found work as a shoemaker in a shoe factory. And again, he began engaging in illegal activity, putting together a shoemakers’ union, going from an unknown novice to the leader of the cell. Together with other Bolsheviks of Yekaterinoslav, he actively propagandized against the war, which the leadership ordered to be branded “imperialist,” although the real goal was to fan internal contradictions within the state and society. Within a few months, he had already become a member of the district Party committee and also a member of the city Party Committee. Lazar organized and led a strike at the shoe factory. He was promptly fired, but he smiled. The strike was his handiwork; he controlled it completely and knew what would come of it. After being on strike for six weeks, the factory workers demanded that the management reinstate Lazar in exchange for ending the strike. The workers acted in a coordinated and united manner, just as Lazar had ordered them, and the factory owner had to give in. The workers’ demands were met, and Lazar was reinstated. This turned out to be a significant achievement on the part of the strikers. They decided that the factory owner deserved a “good lesson.” He was severely beaten, made into a cripple, and the police began searching for the instigators. Lazar was arrested and banished from the city. He moved to Melitopol, slightly south of Yekaterinoslav, just a few kilometers from the Sea of Azov and eight hundred kilometers from Kabanovo. Lazar changed his surname again, this time to Goldenberg, and once more started working as a shoemaker. Thanks to his experience, he headed the underground shoemakers’ union and organized a local Bolshevik cell. Having finished the organizational work, he headed for Yuzovka. Not far from Novorossiysk, he took a job at a shoe factory and became the head of the local Party organization there. The trade union he organized carried out several successful strikes. The largest of these involved over 50,000 workers demanding a 50 percent wage increase.

There was no doubt that the two gigantic trade unions — the shoemakers in the east and the leather workers in the west — were now completely controlled by Bolsheviks like Lazar and were already playing a significant subversive, or as they preferred to say then, revolutionary role. And in this, much of the credit belonged to Lazar. The Party members regarded him as an experienced and resolute communist, a fighter who had gone through arrests, and a persuasive orator. “Uncle Lyovik could be proud of me,” thought Lazar. “I can now draw a crowd no smaller than Trotsky did back then in Kiev.”

Lazar was assigned to recruit new people into the Party. He was seeking not just future members of the Bolshevik Party, but those who could be relied upon, those ready to carry out any order of his. At one of the gatherings of leather workers, he became acquainted with a man named Nikita Sergeyevich. This man did not know how to work with leather. He was a miner, only a year younger than Lazar. Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev had grown up in the village of Kalinovka, Kursk Province. His father came from a poor peasant family and worked in the mine. The son started working at the same mine at the age of nine. When he turned fifteen, he already knew how to repair simple equipment and fix malfunctions. By seventeen, he was already married. Now he was twenty-one, and his questions sounded deliberate and to the point. “And you?” he asked Lazar. “Where are your family?” Lazar looked down at the short man with thinning, light-colored hair. He watched as, with short, thick fingers, he adeptly sliced an apple into two halves, though unequal ones. Khrushchev gave the small piece to a thin girl with bulging eyes, sitting behind him. She looked emaciated. Lazar concluded that this was his wife. But Khrushchev said nothing about her and did not even introduce her. Lazar’s eyes carefully studied Khrushchev’s boyish face with its wide grin and large nose with an enormous mole. There were large gaps between his front teeth, and Lazar could see that he was also missing some side teeth. This man truly looked ugly. In Lazar’s imagination, he resembled a pig eating its portion of apple. Having stuffed the entire piece of apple into his mouth, he began chewing it. Lazar waited for him to finish smacking loudly. He found it unpleasant to look into this man’s mouth if he suddenly started answering his questions. At last, Lazar said: “Do you think I should already be married? No, I’m still a bachelor, and I don’t intend to marry.” And he glanced again at the thin girl. It was even curious how little he thought about women. They did not interest him. Women held no interest for Bolsheviks, at least for those he associated with. Some had wives, some fiancées, but all their conversations were always only about the state and its future: what was happening, what the Tsar was doing, what Lenin was doing, what the next step would be. No, women did not interest him. That side of life was reduced to a minimum for him and kept at a distance. From time to time, Lazar found himself in female company, when Party members gathered to drink vodka and exchange the latest news. There was nothing unusual if a woman sat alone at the next table, herself a factory worker, sipping cheap vodka or cheap wine, smoking cigarette after cigarette, and listening in on the men’s conversations. By the strict morals of the time, these were quite formidable women. By the end of the evening, when much had been drunk and there turned out to be too little food, this woman might invite Lazar to spend the night together. Nothing stood behind such brief encounters. Lazar never sought to continue the acquaintance. For him, it was just a momentary outlet. And nothing more. Revolution is a serious business; there is no room, or almost no room, for personal relationships not tied to politics.

But all people are different. In Khrushchev, sitting across from him, Lazar discerned a like-minded comrade and ally, one who would carry out what he was ordered without stupid questions, and who would work tirelessly. Khrushchev had almost no education but was considered a strong and resilient worker. And that was what was needed. Lazar decided to draw him into underground work and to observe him, to watch very carefully, until it became definitively clear that this man could be fully trusted. “Send the goat into the garden” — that expression he often heard in Kabanovo. Let Khrushchev become this “goat” — “we’ll send him into the garden,” and Lazar would watch how he behaved. On the main point, they agreed with Khrushchev: both of them viewed this whole political “garden” as an experimental field for stirring up and inciting the people, which was then called “awakening the political consciousness of the masses.”

Together, they listened attentively to the speech of a man who had been sent, about whom it was only known that his underground name was “V.V. Grishkin” and that he was, supposedly, a factory worker. “Grishkin” related, but very little, about a conference that was held in the Swiss town of Zimmerwald, at which “Grishkin” had been present as a delegate. It turned out that 38 delegates from eleven countries had gathered at the conference of European socialists. The majority, he emphasized, were pacifists. Only a few, headed by Lenin, wanted to “turn the imperialist war into a civil war.” This policy was then known under the name “revolutionary defeatism.” “Grishkin” shook his head:

• You see, for Lenin it is simple. He believed that one should use the squabble between imperialists of different countries to open a second front in one’s own rear. He is firmly convinced that our personal enemy is at home. But Lenin also knows that the German revolutionaries paid for similar proposals with prison.

• And what can you say about Trotsky? – asked Lazar. – Is he on Lenin’s side?

“Grishkin” shook his head negatively.

• Trotsky does not agree with Lenin on the question of unleashing a civil war in Russia. Trotsky was even asked to draft a manifesto condemning the war.

Lazar knew that it was no secret that the war had pushed the Russian intelligentsia over to the side of Bolshevism. Even Trotsky, however self-confident he was, had to agree with this. Therefore, Trotsky was forced to follow the course proposed by Lenin. In the frontline zone, agents of many parties were organizing strikes, ferment, condemnation of the war. Everyone was talking about it. Throughout Russia, a shortage of food was constantly, artificially created to provoke unrest among city dwellers and peasants.

What distinguished Lazar from Lenin and Trotsky was that he had never left the borders of Russia. Many revolutionaries freely traveled between European countries, even despite the war. Many, like Lenin, took advantage of Switzerland’s neutrality and settled in Zurich. None of the so-called “professional revolutionaries,” as you understand — one cannot earn a living from this — experienced the slightest money troubles, not to the smallest degree. Trotsky was expelled from France as a “suspicious foreigner,” but he was given a lavish reception in the USA. In New York, he lived in luxurious apartments in Manhattan, had servants and a personal car with a chauffeur, and together with Bukharin was listed as a mere correspondent for the Russian-language Jewish newspaper “Novy Mir” (New World). Both of them also gave lectures in the Jewish district of the East Side, where about two and a half million Jews from Russia lived. (Translator’s note. This district is shown in the Hollywood film “Once Upon a Time in America”). Hence the origin of the stories about Bukharin’s great “theoretical abilities.” Trotsky and Bukharin received American citizenship instantly and without any humiliating procedures; this was simply conveniently forgotten later.

Lazar continued to change names and places of residence. His method was simple. Under an assumed surname, he would settle in some city, hire on for work, incite the workers, organize a strike, be fired, and then move on to his next location, change his surname again, and everything would start all over again. Lazar Kaganovich was not unique in this. Hundreds and hundreds, thousands and thousands of people like Kaganovich led the same nomadic way of life. It became almost a ritual, an obsession. But Kaganovich was not satisfied with this state of affairs; he wanted only himself to stand out above all others.

He had just finished explaining to six new workers how to remove the hair from the leather and proceed to the tanning process. The tanning substances, when interacting with gelatin, give the leather a beautiful sheen.

At the same time, Lazar was pushing his own line: he warned five men and one woman, with whom he had just spent the previous night, that they must obey only him, and no one else. In exchange, he promised certain concessions: not to be too demanding about their work and a cushy position along Party lines. As soon as he had instructed them and these new workers walked away, Lazar was surrounded by four soldiers of the Tsarist army. The senior among them was a soldier of about sixty with a large white beard.

• We are fighting against illegal organizations and troublemakers like you.

• You’d have done better to go to the front. What, tired of running away?

• You are under arrest. And you will be exiled back to your homeland, to the Pale of Settlement.

Lazar strained his ears. His eyes widened. He knew perfectly well what this meant. The city wanted to be rid of him. The city was tired of the provocations. He would be sent to Kabanovo! It was tantamount to death, or even death itself!

All of his documents, with the exception of a few hidden in the thickness of his belt, were confiscated, and he himself was escorted under guard to a railway train, in which there were already others, similar to Kaganovich, “permanent revolutionaries.” “Permanent,” thought Kaganovich. He liked that.

Soon he was standing on the outskirts of Kabanovo. A deep depression seized him. His stomach burned with fury, and his face was twisted by a grimace of hatred. Lazar headed for the small house at the foot of the hill. This time, there was no burning candle to be seen. “Happy to be returning to your native hearth?” These were the last words he heard from the laughing soldiers, who had delivered him in complete safety right to his very own home, from which he had run away in search of a better life. “Go to h—!” snarled Lazar in reply.

Contrary to his wishes, he was returned to the place where he had once been born. From a distance, his house looked the same as before. As he got closer, he noticed a difference. The small vegetable garden around the house was completely fouled. Even weeds did not grow there. The chicken coop stood empty. No mezuzah hung on the door anymore. (Translator’s note. A mezuzah is a small case containing a parchment scroll from the skin of a kosher animal, inscribed with a prayer from the Talmud). The paint on the house had peeled. One window opening was boarded up, and the remaining windows were encrusted with dirt. Light could not penetrate inside; it was even impossible to see what was inside. At his knock, the door was opened by a huge man in dark Jewish clothing and a large woman in an equally black dress. They were sparing with their words and knew nothing of the fate of the former inhabitants of the house. They had not even seen them. The new owners of the house had arrived in Kabanovo from Lvov. Like many others, they were fleeing farther away from the front line. There was nowhere to run but to Russia. By the expression in their eyes, Lazar read that they would have liked to flee even farther. The man explained that this house was for sale. And for a couple of chickens, a sack of potatoes, and three loaves of black bread, this little house had become his property. What neighbors? Perhaps Uncle Lyovik had returned, or Morris, or his cousin Herman. But no, Herman was no longer alive. Lazar remembered that. But who had sold their house? Knocking at the neighboring house, however, he met with the same reception. Another stranger in black Jewish clothing and another woman in black met him on the threshold. They too had come fleeing from the west.

Lazar wandered through the town, or rather what remained of it. The changes were striking. Many buildings had simply vanished: there was no school, no bakery, no little shops. Many trees had been cut down for firewood. Gardens and kitchen gardens no longer existed. Kabanovo now looked like a swamp with a road going nowhere. He saw not a single familiar face. Only perhaps the face of a peasant he encountered on the edge of the town seemed familiar to Lazar. Lazar did not know his name, but he remembered that he had helped the policeman and often cleaned out the stables to collect manure and sell it as fertilizer. This man was now carefully watching Lazar’s approach. In those times, people had become cautious, because encounters with one’s own kind no longer boded anything good. Seeing that nothing threatened him, the man spoke first:

• They all left.

He waved his hand toward the forest and nodded his head in confirmation of his words.

• Where did they go?

The man reluctantly turned. His eyes darted about uneasily, and he lowered his head, deep in thought.

• From here, — he again indicated with his hand toward the forest. – Everyone left.

Lazar stood and looked in the direction he was pointing.

• And they will never return?

• Never.

Lazar was now a prisoner under police supervision — or at least, that was the official state of things — in this town, which its previous inhabitants had abandoned, and whose newcomers looked like they had made a temporary stop in search of a better lot. He had no choice. He could easily run away. What was he to do here, in this miserable little town? Consider himself buried alive?

He asked the peasant why he himself had not left along with everyone else. But, in truth, Kaganovich was not interested in the answer. Peasants meant nothing in Kaganovich’s understanding, so why waste time on them?

In the course of working on this book, the author tried to answer the question: where did such an astonishingly powerful hatred grow in Lazar toward the people who inhabit the very land where he himself was born and raised? Where did this savage hatred come from in Lazar Kaganovich, which allowed him to conceive, organize, and implement the Holodomor, which took the lives of at least 7 million peasants and put the rest on the brink of life and death?

Kaganovich had more important things to do than take an interest in the condition of the peasants. Now the situation had changed radically: he was left all alone. There was no one to lean on. He had very few acquaintances left and a few cronies whom he could use to achieve his goals. He had broken with everything, except what could contribute to his success. He had already turned twenty-three. At seventeen, he had left his family home in search of work. Six years had flown by like a single moment. In all that time, he had thought of almost no one, with the exception of himself. He continued to wander around Kabanovo, nodding his head in confirmation of his own reasoning. What was the point of caring for others? The answer stood before his eyes. The people of the old Kabanovo, whom he had known for many years, no longer lived here, and he had to leave too. To his joyful surprise, there was no guard on the outskirts of the town, and people could freely leave its boundaries. This seemed senseless. First they convoy you here, and then they just leave you. Stupid. If you’re going to send someone to prison, it should be done properly: lock the door and throw the keys into the deepest river. There was no order in the country. If he ever got the chance, he would change everything drastically. And no one would have such freedom.

Money was no problem. Lazar had managed to save up quite enough rubles, and they were securely hidden in his broad belt. He barely spent his wages, because as a Party leader, he had the right, whenever he wanted, to take goods for free from the shops and little stores controlled by the Bolsheviks. That was a great advantage the leaders had over the rank-and-file Party members. In the future, this principle of “closed distribution” for their own would become the main principle of distribution in the state where, after Trotsky’s departure, Kaganovich became the most important Jew.

The journey itself also presented no problem. If asked to show his papers, he would present the small yellow ID card which he was obliged to always carry on him. Every Jew carried several such false IDs for all occasions. He would first shave off his beard and change his surname. But now he would head not east, as before, but north, toward the Jewish city of Gomel, where, as he knew, the communists had a strong connection with the local shoemakers’ and leather workers’ union.

Kaganovich set out from Kabanovo again, but this time he only managed to reach the edge of the town. A large green truck stopped beside him, and a bearded Cossack jumped off: “Thinking of running away, Lazar Moiseyevich? The Tsar has found you a warmer spot.” And he pointed to the truck bed. It was filled with young lads. With horror, Lazar understood what had happened: he was being conscripted into the Russian Army. Four hours later, he was already jostling in a boxcar heading for the forty-second artillery regiment, stationed in Saratov. He was assigned to a military unit currently in reserve. Therefore, he had plenty of time to become an active member of the Saratov Party Committee. With his experience, he quickly advanced to the position of member of the Executive Committee of the Soviets of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies. Most of the other members were younger than him and lacked sufficient work experience. Lazar enjoyed authority thanks to his past and his knowledge of Ukraine. He even participated in the work of the soldiers’ Bolshevik conference. He knew that the Bolsheviks would collapse the front anyway. The Tsar was trying to convince the Bolsheviks that they had common problems and that everyone must fight together for a united country. On his part, nothing more stupid and useless could have been devised. The Tsar was shortsighted and did not see that this was a completely different game. It was important for the Bolsheviks to go all the way.

Lazar firmly understood how to conduct himself with those around him. He could smile and pretend to agree. But he knew that no one could be trusted! Therefore, he would always use people for his own interests, as he had already grown accustomed to doing.

In this small corner of Russia, Lazar’s popularity grew quickly. He was elected a member of the All-Army Bureau of the Military Party Organization of the Central Committee of the Russian Social-Democratic Workers’ Party of Bolsheviks. But perhaps his advancement was too hasty: now he was entirely in the open. For his propaganda activity in Saratov, arrest awaited him. So he changed his surname to Zhirovich and fled the city. He had no choice and had to head for Gomel, not far from Mogilev. Gomel was the main railway junction of Belorussia. He knew this city well because he had often traveled there with Uncle Lyovik. He was well remembered and respected there, and soon he became a member of both the local Jewish trade union and the local Party committee.

The year 1917 arrived, and everything began swirling in a hellish vortex. The state had already been so thoroughly decomposed that the commander of the Petrograd garrison, Lieutenant-General Khabalov, proclaimed martial law on February 25, 1917. This only added fuel to the fire. Provocations staged by armed militants immediately led to human casualties, in particular at the Nikolaevsky Station. At the beginning of March, they managed to organize a food shortage, and the subsequent “bread riots” led to a worsening of the unrest. By March 13, the disorders were in full swing, and on March 15, the Tsar was forced to abdicate.

Information was hard to come by at that time. Just a few newspapers and magazines — and in the provinces, everything came only from rumors. On April 16, the Germans transported Lenin and about three hundred of his militants across the front line. At the Finland Station, Lenin openly called for the overthrow of the democratic government as well. Things could not have gotten worse. Lenin cast aside his tactical maneuvers and now was essentially proclaiming Trotsky’s “permanent revolution.”

Lenin shouted: “You must fight for your revolution… You must fight to the end.” — Intervention from abroad was presented to the people as their own interest.

Lazar was aware that he had to keep a close eye on how events were unfolding. Perhaps he should throw himself headlong into politics? Or perhaps it would be worth holding back from speeches, setting up illegal trade unions, and organizing strikes for a time? Before, he had turned a blind eye to everything. It hadn’t been a problem for him. But now he was faced with the disintegrating political structure of an entire country; he had to deal with people of equal or even greater intellect, and at the same time convince them of the correctness of his views. Earlier he had successfully carried out his work in small towns and villages, but he was perfectly aware of the narrow-mindedness of the local inhabitants he had to deal with. They willingly let themselves be led. So he could be unceremonious with them. In Petrograd and Moscow, however, people were completely different. They knew how to think. This was no bast‑shoe peasant. So they had to be approached differently. Lazar knew that to get into their circles, he had to worm his way into each one’s confidence.

Hot on the heels of the tsar’s abdication, in May 1917, Trotsky was sent from New York to Petrograd on the steamship Kristianiafjord. Trotsky did not arrive empty‑handed. The ship was crammed with weapons, and with Trotsky came about three hundred Jewish gangsters from Manhattan’s East Side, already hardened in shoot‑outs with the police during the noisy street war of the Prohibition era. At the same time, astronomical and unlimited sums of money travelled with Trotsky from Wall Street via the Swedish bank Nacka all the way to Petrograd. The irony of fate is that it was precisely because of his connection with the Wall Street bourgeoisie that Trotsky would go on to destroy tens of millions of innocent people, calling this targeted slaughter the neutral term “civil war,” as though it were an internal feud for which the people themselves were to blame, rather than a planned extermination of tens of millions. Trotsky knew that he had come on orders and with full authority from the masters of this planet. He therefore made straight for the Tauride Palace, where the Petrograd Soviet was sitting, and presented his credentials, and above all – money, weapons and men. He immediately became Chairman of the Petrograd Soviet, which at that time had already practically declared itself an alternative body of power. That was not difficult, since Trotsky had already carried out a coup d’état in 1905 and had been chairman of the Petersburg Soviet then, albeit for a short time. The people who control money in the West put Trotsky in charge of Russia in particular, and they do not make mistakes about whom to put in charge.

Trotsky’s speech was brief and at the same time full of substance. He, as they say, “took the bull by the horns” at once, and no one even had time to come to their senses.
“Remember these three commands: do not trust the Russian bourgeoisie, keep everyone under control, and rely on your own revolutionary strength!”
In just a few weeks, Trotsky and his supporters became the main ringleaders among the Bolsheviks. Before that, Trotsky had not been a member of the Bolshevik Party at all. He was, in fact, entirely on his own – a commissar with immense authority from very, very big people. The first among them was the American Jewish banker and billionaire Jacob Schiff, who had financed the first Russian revolution back in 1905, in which that same Trotsky had been Jacob Schiff’s plenipotentiary.

Trotsky’s career took off after he left his first wife, without any formal legal procedures, and married abroad “Sedova,” a relative of the Jewish banker Zhivotovsky. It is to Trotsky first and foremost that a much later proverb would apply: “Don’t have a hundred friends, but marry like Adzhubey.”
Zhivotovsky had access to Paul Warburg himself, of the international Warburg banking house, and the Warburgs were one family with the banking house of Jacob Schiff. Now Schiff and the Warburgs had to recoup the money they had invested in the Russian “enterprise” – with the treasury and gold of the overthrown tsarist government and, as they say, with all the wealth of the Russian people. When Nikolai Bukharin was returning from New York to Russia, he did so via Japan, because on Trotsky’s instructions he had to call on the personal representative of the banker Zhivotovsky in Japan, one Zigmund Rosenblum, better known in Russia as the English spy operating under the pseudonym Sidney Reilly. They discussed the transfer of large sums of money for the forthcoming coup d’état.

Trotsky’s slogans spread all across Russia. Now he found himself in league with the Bolsheviks, turning against everyone else. As early as July 1917, Trotsky launched an armed uprising in Petrograd, but General Kornilov still managed to restore order at that time. Trotsky was temporarily arrested and then released, while Lenin was directly accused of being a German spy and traitor to the motherland – yet later hundreds of millions of people would be forced to worship this very traitor. For the time being, Lenin had to go into hiding in the countryside at Razliv. It was a good thing it was summer, not winter.

By now all of Petrograd knew that Kerensky, together with General Kornilov, was preparing to put a stop to the Soviets’ activities and restore order. General Kornilov declared: “I, General Kornilov, the son of a Cossack peasant, cannot hand Russia over to its eternal enemy, Germany. The time has come to string up the German agents and spies headed by Lenin and to scatter their hornets’ nest, the ‘Soviet of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies,’ so that they can never assemble again.” However, at the last moment Kerensky betrayed Kornilov and accused him of high treason. Kornilov’s soldiers were simply bribed, and they scattered without a single shot being fired. The last obstacle on the path to the coup, General Kornilov, had been removed.

It also became clear to Lazar Kaganovich what he had to do. For since that far-off May day of his youth, Trotsky had been his chief idol, the ideal he strove to imitate. The words Trotsky now spoke became for Lazar three cardinal commandments that he would follow all his life: “Do not trust the Russian bourgeoisie; keep your leaders under control; and rely only on your own revolutionary force!” Lazar also realized that he must soon move north. He could not fritter away his strength on journeys across boundless Russia. He must find himself in the thick of events before they passed him by. His hour was coming—and, he believed, the hour of all Russia, too.

From March to October, the self-proclaimed and anti-constitutional organ of power, the Petrograd Soviet, was pulling the blanket over itself and, in the end, it succeeded.
On October 25, the Military Revolutionary Committee of the Petrograd Soviet seized power. Lenin’s influence was great, but the entire organizational and practical part of the coup, as Chairman of the Petrograd Soviet and the Military Revolutionary Committee, was carried out by Trotsky. Lazar eagerly read every newspaper article devoted to the events in the capital. One of them was signed by a certain Joseph Dzhugashvili:
“All the work on the practical organization of the Petrograd Uprising was entirely in the hands of the chairman of the Petrograd Soviet, Comrade Trotsky. It should be fully recognized that the party owes the rapid transfer of the Petrograd garrison to the side of the revolution to the skillful leadership of the Military Revolutionary Committee, and especially to Comrade Trotsky.”
Lazar read this article over and over again. The coup succeeded for Trotsky because he had at his disposal a select and trained detachment of militants, which he had brought from New York, and unlimited money, with which he managed to subdue both the Bolsheviks and the declassed elements in the city. This detachment, poorly Russian-speaking New York gangsters, would become the core of the Cheka and the Red Army, which Trotsky immediately began to create. In order to legalize their presence, these foreigners were passed off as “Balts.” Subsequently, they were given the name “Red Latvian Riflemen,” one of many myths with which the “revolution” would later become overgrown.
Dzhugashvili’s article was not interesting; at that time Trotsky’s name was on everyone’s lips. However, Lazar would later remember the author’s surname.
The seizure of power in Petrograd by the Bolsheviks was regarded by many as a temporary success, not a revolution. Lazar heard that the capture of government facilities occurred completely bloodlessly and was not accompanied by mass rallies and demonstrations in the streets of the city. The fact that there was no uprising of the workers, no barricades and street fighting, only indicated what a mighty force stood behind it all. And Lazar to some extent felt himself involved in what had happened. After all, he had so splendidly united the Gomel Bolsheviks that the transfer of power into their hands also passed bloodlessly. There is no doubt that in Petrograd they must appreciate his role. In Gomel, Lazar also met his first comrades-in-arms, on whom he would rely all his life thereafter. One of these Gomel comrades was Mendel Khataevich, who later became the second secretary of the Communist Party of Ukraine and the chief executioner in Ukraine during collectivization. In Gomel, Khataevich was deputy chairman of the Podlessky Bolshevik committee, whose chairman was Lazar. Lazar knew whom to place where.
The new government immediately set to work energetically. New forms of administration began to form throughout the country. Numerous decrees and edicts poured out from Petrograd. Such a thing had never even been heard of before. The essence of the changes taking place was simple: since Trotsky now represented the central authority and the state – everything was subject to nationalization. Each day brought something new. One day the stock exchange was closed, the next the right of inheritance was abolished. Banks and factories were declared nationalized. Even the fishing fleet ended up being nationalized. Private ownership of land was banned. A law was passed on the basis of which all conservative newspapers were closed. Gold was annulled and declared deprived of all value. Courts were replaced by revolutionary tribunals, in which any citizen could act as judge or lawyer, and which handed down death sentences without any delay. Strict laws on marriage and divorce were declared invalid; they were replaced by new, extremely simplified procedures. The old Russian calendar was changed to the Western style, and letters were thrown out of the original Russian alphabet. Titles of nobility were discarded from circulation; in their place the words “citizen,” and even more often “comrade,” began to be used. The innovations also affected religion. Churches were destroyed, priests were killed, church lands were confiscated. Persistent rumors circulated that the Jews had a hand in this. No wonder – synagogues were only just beginning to be built. A monument was opened to Judas, who had betrayed Christ, and the barely holding-on Bolshevik government was already sending Jewish volunteers to Palestine to build a Jewish state in support of the Balfour Declaration, which was given to the Jews on November 2, almost simultaneously with the October coup in Petrograd. The world’s first law punishing Jewish jokes with the death penalty was issued by Trotsky in 1918, who, besides his practical posts as People’s Commissar of Defense and Transport, also took on religion. Trotsky also organized the campaign to confiscate church valuables, and was also chairman of the “Glavkontseskom,” which swiftly granted concessions for the development of Russian mineral resources to foreign companies. Counting from the very beginning, Trotsky was: Chairman of the Petrosoviet, Chairman of the Military Revolutionary Committee, organized the Cheka, was the first Minister of Foreign Affairs, People’s Commissar of Defense and the Navy, Chairman of the Revolutionary Military Council, People’s Commissar of Transport, was in charge of confiscating church valuables, was Chairman of the Glavkontsesskom, and as Trotsky himself says in the second volume of his autobiography: “My Life”: “I was the real organizer and leader of more than a dozen various companies and commissariats.”
In actual fact, the revolution was prepared and carried out by Jews. Both grandfathers of Karl Marx were rabbis, and Lenin’s grandfather was also a Jew. Was not Yakov Sverdlov, the first head of the Soviet government, a Jew, and the dictator Trotsky himself? But most people did not know this and believed that one could get along with the Jews, as they had got along before.
The fact that Lenin’s co-dictator Trotsky was a Jew seemed natural for a party in which Jews constituted the majority, given their share in the country’s population of only 1.8 percent. Lazar had to keep his ears open. Would the population support a revolution concocted by the Jewish people? Somewhere deep down he already knew the answer; it remained to decide what he himself should do. And for now he had to swim with the current and stay afloat.

Lazar was elected Chairman of the Third Congress of Soviets from the Mogilev Province. The Mensheviks were expelled from the organization, and the group now consisted of “pure” Bolsheviks. One effective way to gain party popularity was organizing “demonstration propaganda” in major cities. Trucks, tram cars, and other possible vehicles circulating through the streets were employed for this. They were usually draped with banners and brief propaganda slogans. In Moscow, up to sixty such “events” could take place simultaneously. In Petrograd, around twenty. “Agitation trains” crisscrossed the country, and “agitation steamships” plied the rivers. This new method of propaganda gave rise, as critics put it, to a “new form of art.”

The Bolshevik Pravda continued to “tighten the screws”: “The people demand that we take power into our own hands alone and establish iron order in the country. So be it! We accept this power, bowing to the demand of the entire country. But this is no easy task, because we must crush the enemies of the revolution and the saboteurs with a firm hand. They dream of Kornilov’s dictatorship. So let us give them the dictatorship of the Proletariat instead!”

So many events were taking place in the vast country that it was hard to follow everything at once. Kiev became a stronghold of the new authority. Lazar clearly saw that the revolutionary fervor was provided by the same people with whom he had attended anti-government meetings before the revolution. These people put the workers of the Kiev “Arsenal” factory to defend the new government. Everything happened exactly as Trotsky had said at the time.

A truce was signed with the anti-Bolshevik Ukrainian government, which initially took everything under its control. The Socialist Revolutionaries proposed transferring land to private ownership, while the Bolsheviks wanted to nationalize all land. Lazar had a hand in signing the armistice. Throughout Ukraine, he actively pushed the Bolshevik policy and did everything in his power to be in their spotlight. He understood that the truce was a temporary phenomenon. Trotsky would never agree to share power with Lenin. The truce was only valid on paper and was conditioned by the current moment, like everything else. The world that Lazar knew had been destroyed, and a new one had to be built. He, Lazar, absolutely had to take part in laying the foundations of this new world. Only thus could he win his place in the sun.

Meanwhile, Lazar was successfully building his party reputation. He was elected as a deputy to the Constituent Assembly from the Bolshevik faction. And, more importantly, he was heading to Petrograd for the Third All-Russian Congress of Soviets. This meant that he would see with his own eyes what he had previously only read about in newspapers. In December 1917, he set off for Petrograd. This time he did not have to travel by hitchhiking and use false documents. He again became Lazar Moiseyevich Kaganovich. The new government provided him with a train ticket that would take him through Mogilev, Orsha, Vitebsk, and further north. At every station he saw huge crowds of people. It seemed the entire population was moving somewhere. The train was a special one, filled with delegates from all the western regions of Russia. While the population of Russia was dying of hunger all around, the train had what was called a “food carriage.” Enormous mounds of so-called “capital salad” were heaped into aluminum bowls and passed around. Lazar liked the salad very much. The salad consisted of chopped potatoes, cucumbers, carrots, onions, peas, and boiled eggs, mixed with mayonnaise. There were also bits of chopped chicken and ham. Lazar had heard that this was a popular Petrograd dish.

Although after a couple of hours most of his fellow travelers had uncorked vodka bottles, Lazar only sipped tea, and even with lemon! It seemed that the new government had taken all the food from the people and was feeding only those who now served it.

In the past Lazar had tried to compete with others to see who could drink the most, but he had no “talent” for it. Usually vodka just made him sick. This was probably due to heredity, for in childhood among his Jewish circle he had not seen drunkenness. Most residents of Kabanov drank a small glass of wine on Saturdays. Occasionally someone might allow themselves to drink more than usual, but Jews never got drunk the way it was common among Russians. Drinking was a “normal” phenomenon of Russian life. Therefore it was important for Lazar to “be able to keep company” over a bottle of wine, but he himself drank moderately. With conversations and new acquaintances, on the whole, the journey proved pleasant and time flew by unnoticed. Only the heavy jostling was tiring. Most of Lazar’s fellow passengers had never been to Petrograd before. Everything seemed new and unusual to them, and they eagerly awaited the encounter with the capital. Outside the carriage window, unconsoling scenes of Russian reality drifted by. War and revolution had left their mark on everything. Villages had been either abandoned or burned down, leaving only a few inhabitants huddled in half-ruined huts. At times Lazar would tune out the surrounding noise and commotion and look out the window, trying to catch the eyes of people greeting the passing special train of congress delegates with red flags and banners. He tried to find familiar faces of those he had once worked with, wandered the country with, and even those he had lived with. For the first time in many years, he remembered his family. He did not know what had become of them. His mother, father, and Rosa were living somewhere else. But he felt they were still in Russia, though he was not entirely sure. Someone had told him about a grand engagement in Mozyr of the son of a prosperous leatherworker. The family name was Kaganovich. From the description it could have been Uncle Lyovik and Morris, but that event had taken place many years ago. His trip to Mozyr the previous year had clarified nothing, for he found only a gathering of impoverished residents who had no notion of the lavish engagements of the past. The only one who might know about the family’s fate was Mikhail. He had become the Chairman of the Arzamas Revolutionary Committee. And Lazar suspected that Yuri, too, must be somewhere nearby.

Early in the morning on the third day of his journey, Lazar arrived in Petrograd. As the train approached the platform, he immediately saw why this city enjoyed such renown. Apart from Kiev, Lazar had never had the chance to visit large cities. He had only seen villages and small towns, devoid of refinement and beauty. Now, hundreds of bridges stretched before him—small and large, simple and ornate—connecting the city’s numerous islands and islets. He saw palaces beautiful in their proportions, spacious squares, church spires reaching for the sky, gigantic cathedral domes, and parks with classical statues. Everything he saw was awe-inspiring and made a powerful impression. Even now, despite the piercing wind and the gloomy gray sky, the city overwhelmed with its magnificence.

The delegates were lodged in different parts of the city, but the majority ended up in the building of the Smolny Institute, a majestic edifice with white columns that had for many years served as a school for educating girls from noble families. The Military Revolutionary Committee, under the chairmanship of Trotsky, had seized the entire Smolny building at its disposal from the very moment of arrival. Camp beds stood everywhere, and Lazar occupied one right in the corridor. The convenience was that a huge window was nearby, through which one could admire the beauty of the Smolny Convent, a splendid symmetrical structure by the mid-18th-century architect Rastrelli, executed in delicate white and blue tones. Lazar decided to take from the city whatever he could, even though his days and even nights would be occupied with endless meetings and debates about the future of Russia. Meetings with new people awaited him, and it was important to remember all the new faces in connection with their names and reputations.

On his first day, Lazar strolled along Nevsky Prospect, which had been the capital’s main thoroughfare since its very foundation. Stretching in a straight line for six kilometers, the avenue ended at the Alexander Nevsky Lavra. Lazar had heard talk of renaming Petrograd’s main street Oktyabrsky Prospect in honor of the revolution, but it was also said that no matter what changes occurred, for everyone it would forever remain Nevsky Prospect. Nevsky belongs, first and foremost, to the city and its residents, and no hasty decrees can change that fact. Lazar walked past Kazan Cathedral, whose architecture resembles St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican. The cathedral features a majestic colonnade of 136 Corinthian columns. For Lazar, finding himself in such a large city for the first time, the abundance of churches and cathedrals, monuments, bridges, and shops was astonishing. The impression was heightened by the thought that this city now held the world’s attention. At times, it seemed to him that he saw Trotsky or even Lenin in the crowd, but it always turned out he was mistaken. Petrograd made an enormous impression on Lazar. And he already imagined himself living there, but first he needed to move out of the transit corridor where he had been settled.

He returned to the Smolny when it was already dark. He suspected he had missed some meetings that day, but for the first time, it did not trouble him. It was important to him to know where he was. His surroundings meant a great deal to him, and only after familiarizing himself with them could he then concentrate on his inner affairs. Approaching his camp bed, he saw a man sitting on it, writing a letter. Lazar’s eyes immediately caught the phrase: “My beloved Katya.” The man writing the letter was at least fifteen years older than Lazar, and he introduced himself as Kliment Efremovich Voroshilov, who had arrived from Lugansk. (Translator’s note: The wife of Kliment Efremovich Voroshilov was Ekaterina Davydovna, née Golda Gorbman). He related that during the revolution he had been in the capital as part of the Izmailovsky Regiment, and later was sent to Lugansk to organize the Bolshevik Party there. He headed the city’s party organization and was elected a member of the All-Russian Executive Committee. Now he had returned to Petrograd as an important figure—a delegate.

The new acquaintance had a pleasant appearance; his wavy hair had already slightly thinned. He had a thin little mustache under a large nose. Lazar immediately recognized him as “his kind” of person. He had a trim figure. Unlike Lazar, who had grown quite stout, this man was in good physical shape. He did not give the impression of being a very educated man, but he had an infectious smile. He won over those he spoke with. Lazar reflected inwardly how this daring man, with such a record in the struggle for Bolshevism, could be useful to him.

Behind Voroshilov stood a short man with a lush mop of black hair and equally black, dashingly curled mustache. He introduced himself as Ordzhonikidze and also had a peasant appearance. He was, without a doubt, a joker and a prankster. Several people had gathered around him, laughing infectiously at his yarns. Ordzhonikidze was “reeling off” one anecdote after another and had no intention of stopping. After observing him for a few minutes, Lazar understood—as long as everyone laughed, the man kept going.

“Lazar Moiseevich?” Voroshilov asked.

Lazar nodded.

“I’ve brought you greetings from your brother in Arzamas. I passed through Arzamas on my way here. Actually, Mikhail was also supposed to come, but he fell ill.”

Lazar frowned.

“But don’t worry, nothing serious. Just a cold. A common thing—Russian winter. If only we could make the weather!”

Voroshilov smiled.

“I was writing a letter to my wife here. And since my buddy occupied my bunk and is entertaining others with his jokes, I perched on yours. I hope you don’t mind, eh?”

Voroshilov nodded in the direction of Ordzhonikidze, who was telling another yarn, although the number of his listeners had dwindled.

“You’re probably here for the first time, eh? You likely have questions, eh?”

Lazar relaxed and perched on the edge of the camp bed.

“Well, actually, it’s not clear to me who is who. I keep hearing the surname Rosenfeld, Trotsky’s son-in-law. Is this nepotism, or…,” he looked around and lowered his voice. “Or are there too many of our Jews?”

Voroshilov chuckled.

“No, no. Allow me to explain. Firstly, that is Lev Borisovich Kamenev. His real surname is Rosenfeld. He is also a Jew. He writes articles for Lenin and edits them. They say if Lenin is to compile a collection of his articles, only Lev Borisovich Kamenev will do it. Kamenev is a relative of Trotsky; he is his son-in-law, the husband of Trotsky’s sister. The other one you’re asking about, he’s also one of ours—Grigory Evseevich Zinoviev, his real name is Ovsei-Girsh Aronovich Radomyslsky-Apfelbaum. He is Lenin’s closest assistant and the editor of all his publications. What’s the difference, eh? One deals with Lenin’s personal papers, and the other also deals with Lenin’s personal papers.”

Voroshilov looked around. The day was drawing to a close, and the corridor was quickly filling with delegates returning from various meetings.

“They are both Jews, correct?”

Voroshilov nodded in reply.

“But there are also two favorites. One is also one of ours. Perhaps you’ve come across the name Nikolai Nikolaevich Bukharin. He is Trotsky’s right hand. He was with him the whole time in America. They were listed there for ‘Novy Mir.’ Then he was in Japan. I don’t know how it’s connected, but he is considered one of the leading Bolshevik theoreticians.”

He paused.

“And there is one non-Jew—Koba. They say he has a strong influence on Lenin. But I myself don’t know anything about it. Supposedly he was one of the party’s main militants, ‘party counterintelligence,’ so to speak, and therefore knows everything about everyone.”

“And what does he look like?” Lazar asked.

This time Ordzhonikidze joined the conversation:

“Iosif Vissarionovich doesn’t look like any of the party leaders. He’s a Georgian, which for others is already bad enough in itself. He is stocky, with somewhat yellowish-sickly skin and jaundiced eyes.” Ordzhonikidze snorted:

“He has a bushy mustache and…” He leaned forward and added in a conspiratorial whisper:

“Dirty fingernails.” With that, Ordzhonikidze leaned back and neighed like a stallion. Everyone else also burst out guffawing.

The Congress of Soviets opened the next day. Lazarus was appointed to the All-Russian Central Executive Committee of the Russian Soviet Federation. He did not know how it happened, but after the confirmation, as he scanned the assembly hall, he saw the face of a man everyone knew as Koba fixed on him. Lazarus nodded in greeting, but the man did not respond; instead, as it seemed to Lazarus, he only smirked into his mustache. At first Lazarus wanted to ask Voroshilov, who sat beside him, whether he owed his appointment to Koba’s influence, but then changed his mind. If that man wanted to push him, Lazarus, through, then so be it. To resist from his side would be foolish; better to enjoy the new post, whatever it might be, and the capital he had taken a liking to. This enjoyment proved, however, to be very short-lived. In early January 1918, the Bolsheviks dispersed the lawfully elected Constituent Assembly at the Tauride Palace. And soon afterward, since everything in Petrograd had already been suppressed and its influence needed to spread further across Russia, while Petrograd lay on the fringe of the vast Russian Empire, the Bolshevik government moved entirely to Moscow, to the Kremlin. Once again Lazarus found himself on a train, but this time he traveled southeast.

And here was the Kremlin – an ancient fortress. Lazarus stood on the crown of the hill, from which a view opened over the Moscow River. He strolled across the cobblestoned Cathedral Square, where the Dormition and Archangel Cathedrals stand, and the Palace of Facets. He touched the Tsar Cannon with his hands. Just beyond it, a yellow triangular building rose majestically – the former Tsarist Senate. Now it housed the new Soviet government. There were other buildings around, but Lazarus had already seen a great deal. The Kremlin astounded him with its magnificence. Never before had he seen such a cluster of churches and cathedrals, each finer than the last, adorned with priceless treasures from icons to golden cupolas.

He settled into a tiny attic room in a building on Rybny Lane, in the very center of Moscow, just off Razin Street. The fish markets were situated here. Lazarus did not like the place. In winter the fish lay piled in icy heaps and were covered with snow. The smell of fish sickened him, and not far away was Zaryadye, a district of slums and crime. But he soon immersed himself completely in the work of organizing the Workers’ and Peasants’ Red Army.

Power in Russia had changed, but the situation remained the same: the state was still at war with Germany. Hence the first priority was to resolve that problem. Germany also proposed peace, asking in passing for independence for Poland, the Baltic states, Finland, and Ukraine. Trotsky refused to sign a peace on such terms. Lenin insisted, believing there was no other way out. If a peace agreement with the Germans were not signed, the Soviet government would have to fight the Germans. But with what forces, Lenin thought, when the Bolsheviks themselves had destroyed the regular army and the front? There was no army. Who destroyed it? – The Bolsheviks. But Trotsky, whose plans included world revolution, including in Germany, now craved continuing the war with the Germans, so that at the cost of millions of Russian soldiers’ lives he could carry his Bolshevik revolution into Germany and become absolute dictator not only of the Russian Empire but of all Europe. Trotsky never dealt in trifles.

To Lazarus’s chagrin, Ukraine joyfully welcomed the German peace proposal. The situation became heated; Lenin insisted, and a peace agreement with Germany was signed.

But now the new government confronted another problem: after the bloody dispersal of the Constituent Assembly, on which the Russian people had pinned such hopes, mass resistance began across the country against the new anti-popular Bolshevik government, which seized everything and shot everyone indiscriminately. Hence Trotsky undertook the creation of a regular army subordinated to the Bolsheviks. That was the most important task at the time – the building of a regular Bolshevik army, to which they gave the name Red Army. Why Trotsky again? Because from the moment of his arrival in Petrograd, Trotsky had never loosened his grip on the leadership of armed men, the original core of whom he had brought from New York. It was Trotsky’s New York gangsters who carried out the coup in Petrograd; it was Trotsky’s New York gangsters who formed the Cheka and mowed down Petrograd on the day the Constituent Assembly was dispersed; it was these same New Yorkers – now Trotsky’s “Red Latvian Riflemen” – who now placed themselves at the head of the Red Army.

Lenin’s signing of the Brest-Litovsk Peace strained Trotsky’s patience to the limit. He decided to get rid of Lenin. A coup d’état was planned for the summer of 1918, as a result of which power was to pass entirely into Trotsky’s hands, while Lenin and his followers were to be eliminated. In other words, it was a pure Trotskyist rebellion.

The difference between Lenin and Trotsky was very simple. Lenin led only his own Bolshevik party, whereas Trotsky was followed by the majority of Jews regardless of which party they belonged to. Trotsky was not a communist leader – Trotsky was the leader of all Jews, and that is precisely why almost all Jews obeyed him, irrespective of party affiliation. Two of Trotsky’s people – the Jewess Maria Alexandrovna Spiridonova and the Jew Boris Savinkov – prepared an armed uprising in the summer of 1918, acting in the name of the Socialist-Revolutionary Party. The aim of the uprising was to eliminate Lenin and replace him with Trotsky. Trotsky himself was the leader, a figure so towering that, in case of failure, he had to remain above suspicion. Therefore all orders to the mutineers came not directly from Trotsky, but through the Western ambassadors in Moscow: namely the British ambassador Lockhart, and the US and French ambassadors Noulens and Francis. Thus events such as the murder of the German ambassador Mirbach and the attempt on Lenin’s life, accompanied by armed uprisings in Moscow and Petrograd, were part of a coup d’état already underway. In the summer of 1918, Rosenblum—Reilly was in Moscow and sought an audience with Lenin. It is entirely possible that he was supposed to shoot Lenin during the audience. However, he was not granted one. It was not without reason that the British ambassador Lockhart was arrested and confronted with Fanny Kaplan in a face-to-face identification. With Lockhart’s arrest, the Trotskyist rebellion collapsed. Trotsky had to pretend that it was none of his concern. Everyone was told that these were all the machinations of opponents of Soviet power, and under that pretext Trotsky further ratcheted up the merciless extermination of Russia’s population. The direct executors of the coup, Savinkov and Reilly, fled abroad, while Spiridonova feigned insanity and was placed in a hospital; Kaplan was swiftly shot, and Lockhart was released by Peters.

The Trotskyists never abandoned their attempts to usurp power. When Lenin died, both Savinkov and Reilly were once again infiltrated into Russia to aid Trotsky, but Dzerzhinsky, Lenin’s man, met them fittingly – and paid for it with his life. In that instance, too, Savinkov and Rosenblum—Reilly were carrying out a coup d’état not for themselves, but to bring Trotsky to power. When the next Trotskyist rebellion, the famous “Operation Trust,” collapsed, Savinkov and Rosenblum—Reilly were killed not for their part in the uprising, but so that they would not betray Lev Davidovich Trotsky. Thus the legend of Boris Savinkov as a fearless revolutionary is nothing more than one of numerous legends. Savinkov was an ordinary foreign agent and provocateur.

In the spring of 1918, Lazar was assigned to help form the first detachments of the Red Army. A huge, combat-ready army had to be created urgently. It was even permitted to recruit former officers of the tsarist army. The country needed experienced military men. That summer there was an uprising in Moscow. On 30 August an attempt was made on Lenin’s life, but he survived. The next day, Moisei Uritsky, head of the Petrograd Cheka, was killed. Both hired killers—Kaplan and Kannegiser—were Jews and Trotsky’s people. Trotsky was concentrating power in his own hands and acting swiftly. Lazar admired the man’s irrepressible energy. After the uprising failed, in order to divert suspicion, Trotsky arrested tens of thousands of people in Moscow and Petrograd. They were all shot. Lazar saw what had happened. Trotsky began a struggle for power with Lenin. Trotsky had no intention of sharing his absolute power with anyone. A duumvirate did not suit him. But Lazar did not waver; he had long ago decided whom to side with.

At the end of 1918, Lazar was sent to Nizhny Novgorod, not far from Arzamas, where Mikhail and Yuri were working. Lazar now often thought of his older brothers. Perhaps he was also prompted by the fact that he saw many family men around him. In Nizhny Novgorod he was to become an agitator for the local committee. He expected only pleasant things from this new post. Many Bolsheviks had converged here, and Nizhny Novgorod was quickly turning into a stronghold of Bolshevism and a base for forming Red Army units. Besides, a reunion with an old acquaintance, Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev, awaited him; he had not seen him for several years. Khrushchev had changed little over those years. He still ate more than he talked. From the very moment they met and began work on organizing the Red Army, Lazar understood what drove this man. Having eaten his fill, he would fall into an excellent mood and start making caustic jokes about the canteen, the service, and even the food itself, which he devoured in seconds. The young girl whom Lazar had seen with him at their last meeting—and who, rumor had it, was his wife—had vanished somewhere. When asked about her whereabouts, Lazar met only an absent look from the other. (Translator’s note: Khrushchev’s first wife died in 1919.)

Few party workers wanted to have anything to do with this balding, stout man. They considered him coarse and ill-bred. Lazar also knew of these shortcomings, but he also knew about Khrushchev’s extraordinary capacity for work, and, most importantly, that one could always rely on him. From time to time this was confirmed. Nikita Sergeyevich always turned up where Lazar needed him. He willingly carried out what he was ordered to do and preferred to stay in the background. No, people like Khrushchev were a rarity among Bolsheviks. A great many loved to talk, not to work. The majority only wanted to rest on their laurels—for what merits, it was unclear. There were many cunning and insincere people, but they all lacked enough shrewdness to turn their cunning to their own advantage. Only one person did not fall into that category, and Lazar hoped to see him that evening at the “National” restaurant in Nizhny Novgorod.

It seemed that in every Russian city there was, for some reason, a restaurant called the “National.” And indeed he saw him, sitting somewhere off to the side—that familiar small man with a thin mustache. He had a slight build, and his eyes seemed to glitter nervously. He was sitting next to another man, six or seven years his junior, but already with noticeable gray streaks in his small beard. “Over there,” Lazar said to Nikita, pointing a finger at the table where the two were sitting. “Over there. I told you.” Lazar headed straight for the table. He grabbed the back of the chair on which the fragile man with the thin mustache was sitting and shook it. The man made to rise, but Lazar shoved him hard in the chest. Then their eyes met.

“It’s you!” the man shouted. “You!”

Instead of an answer, laughter rang out.

“Mikhail, you scallywag, son of a bitch, you recognize me?”

The two brothers embraced firmly. For Mikhail it was easier; he had always liked to show off in public. Unlike him, Lazar rarely revealed his true feelings, which happened only when, on journeys from Moscow, the beauty of the Moscow countryside unfolded before them. That touched him. Most often he felt irritability, a deeply buried anger that could not be shown.

He had managed to achieve success, he was aware of that. Because he knew how to keep his emotions under control, unlike others such as Mikhail, who rushed from one extreme to another. Lazar also noticed that those at the top seemed to revel in the authority they had acquired and the chance to give orders. They commanded others as if they had been born for that alone. At the same time they behaved very arrogantly, absolutely certain that they alone knew the absolute truth, and that they alone knew the real problems of the people and how to solve them.

Mikhail introduced his companion. He turned out to be a twenty-three-year-old man named Nikolai Alexandrovich Bulganin. He said he had been born in this city, Nizhny Novgorod, and Lazar immediately felt a liking for him. Bulganin had a round face and plump cheeks, with sparkling blue eyes, but he gave the impression of a calm and balanced man. Nothing seemed able to disturb him. He had a small goatee, and his hair was combed high. Bulganin wore a military uniform that was slightly too large for him. For the most part he tried to smile. Mikhail explained that Bulganin had joined the Bolshevik party only the previous year and was now already deputy chairman of the railway Cheka for the Moscow–Nizhny Novgorod line. This struck Lazar as very strange. How could a newcomer be trusted with such responsible work when almost nothing was known about him? Lazar glanced at Khrushchev and gave a barely perceptible nod. His friend immediately struck up some conversation with Bulganin, and Lazar at last was able to talk with his brother. Nikita meanwhile would get Bulganin talking and sound him out. He was good at that.

“You look well,” Lazar began.

“And you don’t look bad either. I’ve heard about your work in Moscow, and from before.”

“But I’ve only been in Moscow quite recently.”

“Nikolai is aware of your affairs. He works with Iosif Vissarionovich.”

Lazar’s eyes widened. That name again!

“With Koba?” he asked.

“He’s Koba only to his very closest friends.”

Lazar glanced back at Nikita. He was engrossed in conversation with Bulganin. Now they could change the subject.

“And what do you know about our family?”

“I thought you might tell me something. Haven’t you married yourself?”

Lazar laughed in reply:

“I don’t even know what that is.”

“Well, I’m married. And Yuri too. He lives in Arzamas. We both met our wives there. And both of us are actively engaged in party work, though, I must admit, my post is more important. I’m chairman of the Military-Revolutionary Committee.”

He proudly thrust out his chest.

“It was I who recommended Nikolai Bulganin to the party. And you see how far he’s come.”

Lazar smirked. Let Mikhail play the role of elder brother. It was clear he enjoyed it. But Lazar understood that personal achievements could not be defined by an appointment to local punitive bodies. No, success was determined only in Moscow, on the basis of personal contacts. To Lazar, all party members seemed alike; they were all bursting with a sense of superiority, as if they had all suddenly become tsars. Ridiculous!

“And Rose?” he asked. “Do you know where she is?”

A wide grin spread across Mikhail’s face.

“With me, of course,” he said smugly.

“And…” Lazar began to question, but, seeing Mikhail’s lowered eyes, fell silent.

“Rose will tell you everything herself. Uncle Lyovik is in America, Morris too, and his wife. You might even remember her. Hana Gutman from Kishinev. They met in Mozyr and got married. And now they’re in America. They seem to have settled well. They’re in the garment business. Who knows? They’re probably capitalists now. You know Uncle Lyovik. I think they live in New York, though someone said they moved to Philadelphia. I know nothing about children.”

He meant to continue his story, but after glancing at his younger brother’s face he decided to stop. Mikhail sighed and looked Lazar in the eye.

“I don’t know much. I found Rose working in a hospital in Surazh. She didn’t tell me much then. And now she doesn’t speak about the past at all. All I could get out of her was that she wants to become a doctor. Such dreams in the middle of a revolution, in the middle of war—it’s simply not realistic. She’d do better to get married and raise children. After all, the party needs fresh cadres. I don’t understand her.”

Lazar nodded. He turned towards Nikita. He was still arguing heatedly with Bulganin about which direction the country should now take. It was in a state of war, Nikita insisted, and it was crucial to impose order on the economy immediately. He called for strict state control, for expanding expropriation and the confiscation of grain from the peasantry, from whom everything had already been taken.

“War communism,” was Bulganin’s reply. “That’s what you’re advocating, and it will lead to the wholesale militarization of the entire Soviet Republic by the Bolsheviks. And the Bolsheviks will become the new top brass.”

Lazar had already heard these discussions. There had been much talk of it in Moscow. What was introduced as a temporary measure remained forever afterward.

Roza had hardly changed. Lazar saw it at once, as soon as he entered Mikhail’s small flat. She was sitting by the coffee table. Elena Bulganina, Nikolai’s wife, was also there. She had just finished lighting the Jewish memorial candles that occupied a whole corner in the kitchen, along with the obligatory recitation of the Jewish memorial prayer, the Kaddish. Lazar understood immediately that Bulganin’s wife was Jewish, and he reflected that this very circumstance might have had such a favorable effect on her husband’s career. (Translator’s note: This refers to Bulganin’s wife, Elena Mikhailovna Korovina.)
Roza still had thick dark hair and intense, jet-black eyes. She had grown even more beautiful. She was not very tall, but there was a strength emanating from her, and not just physical. Lazar could see her strong, shapely legs, but she also possessed a certain inner power. All evening she remained silent, though she was glad to see Lazar again. It seemed to him that she had not yet sorted out her life. She needed help. She had to be sure that she had a reliable rearguard and that she was the one in control of the situation. Lazar liked this approach. It was his tactic as well.
The others were different. Mikhail and his wife would either grow indignant about the intervention or abandon themselves to sorrowful memories of their families’ fates. Yuri backed up Mikhail in everything. Lazar would not even have noticed Yuri at all, had it not been for his perpetually smoldering papirosa, which he lit and stubbed out by turns, trying to draw attention to himself. Roza was not like that. She did not say much, but whenever she dropped a remark into the general conversation, her thought was measured and her words precise and weighty. At last the Bulganins went home, the brothers went off to bed, and Lazar and Roza were able to talk together, sitting at the small kitchen table. What she said seemed to have been rehearsed long ago, so smooth and rhythmic did her speech sound.
– We were forced to leave Kabany. Some said the Germans were already close. Others supposed we would be resettled deep inside Russia, given housing and land. Some said it was the tsar’s order, others that it was a decree of the new revolutionary government. We had almost no provisions, nothing even to sell or barter. Father had nearly gone blind, he could no longer tell me from Mother. But he would not admit it himself. He moved about the house, bumping into furniture and door jambs, but he said nothing. Then he simply memorized all the projections and bulges of the furnishings, and Mother and I only made sure that nothing was shifted or rearranged. We pretended not to notice.
Roza glanced at the memorial candles flickering in the kitchen corner. Lazar looked at them too, but said nothing. He waited, letting her tell it all herself.
– The situation kept getting worse. Almost everyone left Kabany. Every day someone set out on the road. People often did not know where to turn. Some went north, some south. Like our father, they seemed to be groping in the dark, stumbling against obstacles and feeling them out.
She closed her eyes and leaned back against the chair. Various details came back to her. Lazar saw how her whole body shuddered, but he understood that she did not want to share her tormenting memories with him.
– At last, we left too. We sold everything we could not take with us and set out. We tried to find a home, or at least some place to settle, like thousands of others. We were all searching for something. I don’t even know what, exactly. Our home was what we carried on our backs. Mother would not part with her saucepans, her pots, or even her plates. We bought an old nag from the rabbi’s son and harnessed her to old Uncle Lyovik’s cart – you must remember it.
Lazar remembered the cart well; Uncle Lyovik used to travel around the district with his goods. As a boy, Lazar had often had to sleep on that cart as they returned home. Sometimes, on especially chilly nights, he would warm himself under the soft hides as if under a blanket. He looked at Roza. She had fallen silent to give him a chance to remember. He nodded in thanks, and she resumed her account.
– It’s strange how things happen. We didn’t manage to go far. We buried Mother in a field by the road. Even now I don’t know exactly where. She had a bad heart. In the morning she was talking, in the afternoon she dozed off, and by evening she was already lying in the earth. Nothing portended her death; she didn’t even say goodbye to us. Father said nothing. Some people helped us, and that was all.
A smile appeared on her face. Evidently, she was thinking of something both pleasant and painful.
– You know, I even put a plate in her hands. Do you think I did the right thing?
She looked intently at her brother.
– Father and I continued on our way. The things grew harder and harder to carry. Father remained silent as before. I think that after all that had happened he didn’t say two words to me. He only often looked back. He saw what he wanted to see. I think he left himself in that pit by the road.
She paused.
– I knew Mikhail was living in Arzamas, we had been told, and Father always wanted to live with his eldest son, as he said, “with the heir.” I found Mikhail. It wasn’t difficult. You know yourself he’s a well-known man.
She was gazing at something. Lazar followed her glance and saw the plates, which looked very familiar, and a large saucepan he had remembered from childhood, standing on a shelf. The memorial candles had almost burned out, and the early morning came back to him when he had left Kabany while the Sabbath candles were dying on the windowsill. Roza looked at her brother, and when their eyes met, he could see how her gaze grew moist. She was no longer in control of herself.
– We’ll go and see Father tomorrow. And we’ll bring him flowers.
She covered her face with her hands, and her shoulders shook with sobs. Lazar glanced at the Kaddish candles. They had only a few seconds left to burn.

CHAPTER 3.

The Civil War cost the country very dearly. It turned people’s lives upside down and destroyed Russia. This slaughter claimed the lives of tens of millions of people.
In 1919, Lazar was sent to Voronezh, where he and others personally took part in the fighting against General Denikin. It was there that he learned how to handle weapons and kill with them. He remembered his first victim. He simply fired a revolver into a group of people and saw someone clutch his throat and fall dead to the ground. It turned out to be so simple.
After the Red Army captured Voronezh, Lazar Kaganovich was appointed chairman of the local Revolutionary Committee. Bulganin personally sent a telegram to Moscow, in which he noted Lazar’s excellent work. Those who made decisions in Moscow relied on information from eyewitnesses to the events. In his new post, Lazar began to build a strong party structure in the region. He coordinated the work of establishing Bolshevik power. Lazar became an agitator in the full sense of the word. He travelled around the region in an agit-train, “enlightening” the peasants about the revolution. The train would stop at various stations, and Lazar would roll out a loudspeaker setup. First, spirited marches were played, and then speeches by prominent members of the government were read out—above all, Lenin. Peasants were herded from all across the area to these meetings.
By 1920, the Central Committee of the Party had taken note of Lazar Kaganovich’s work, and he was posted to the Central Asian region as a member of the Turkestan Bureau of the Central Committee of the RCP(b), the Turkcommission of the All-Russian Central Executive Committee, and the Council of People’s Commissars of the RSFSR. He quickly rose to become People’s Commissar of the Workers’ and Peasants’ Inspectorate of the Turkestan Republic and chairman of the Tashkent City Council. That time was marked by rapid, swift career advancement. He proved to be one of the few who knew how to set up an organization and was not afraid of hard work. His appointment as chairman of the Tashkent City Council met with no opposition. The people around him lacked such organizational talent and were devoid of high capacity for work. Moscow had already begun to support him, which meant a great deal for strengthening his position. The only person capable of working at the same speed, though not so productively, was a stout, round-faced man with fingers as thick as sausages. He was the quintessential apparatchik—Georgy Maximilianovich Malenkov, who had a phenomenal memory. He handled personnel matters for the Central Committee and could help people of various ranks advance. At that time, he was working in the political directorate of the Eastern and Turkestan Fronts.
Lazar found Malenkov an interesting conversationalist. He was able to outline the situation in the country precisely and carefully.
“You know, Lazar Moiseevich, there is a difference between what we used to hear from Marx and what we hear now from Lenin. It sounds heretical, but the difference is very noticeable. Allow me to draw some parallels for you. According to Marx, ‘From each according to his ability, to each according to his work.’ Socially, that sounds correct. But I have heard that the Leninist principle says: ‘From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs.’”
Lazar remained silent. He listened attentively but could not determine which he himself would prefer. His brain seized on two words: “work” and “needs.” Could they really be linked together? He realized that he had not thought about the philosophical conception of problems—how to carry out a task, how to choose the right decision, yes—but he was not acquainted with the fundamentals of philosophy; Kaganovich had no education at all. That was his weakness. So he would need to attend to that. And for now, he must work and work selflessly.
He tirelessly fought to shore up the young Turkestan Soviet Republic. Moscow must definitely notice and appreciate his zeal, he was sure of it. But at that time Moscow was looking in another direction. The Kronstadt rebellion broke out. Trotsky, Lenin, and the Bolshevik Central Committee, while the ice had not yet melted, dispatched the Red Army under the command of Tukhachevsky to crush the uprising of the Baltic Fleet sailors—the very sailors who had once helped the Bolsheviks carry out the coup d’état. Now these same sailors had changed their view. Many influential communists supported the Kronstadt rebellion.
Lazar supported the Party’s decision. If the Party suffered defeat, chaos would break out, perhaps even the restoration of the monarchy. And everything would have to be started all over again. While the savage reprisal against the mutineers in Kronstadt was underway, the Tenth Party Congress opened. A struggle of a different kind unfolded. Lenin addressed the delegates:
“The poverty of the working class throughout the reign of the tsarist authorities was never as universal and acute as it has been during the years of our dictatorship. The weakening of workers and peasants has reached the point where they are physically no longer able to work.”
To save the revolution, Lenin proposed giving what the revolution had promised—land to the peasants—because immediately after the revolution Trotsky had taken the land away from the peasants. Lenin decided to give full freedom to peasant enterprise so that they would fill the market with agricultural produce. This provision was called the New Economic Policy (NEP). The state was assigned the role of controlling large-scale industry, foreign trade, the banking system, and transport, while agriculture was handed entirely over to the peasantry. However, very little time would pass before the Trotskyists, under the guise of collectivization, would manage to seize back what Lenin had given to the peasants.
The NEP provoked a Trotskyist opposition in the Party, known as the Workers’ Opposition, headed by the Commissar of Labor Alexander Shlyapnikov. Shlyapnikov insisted on trade union control over output: “There must be control!” Lenin reacted swiftly: “The trade unions are obliged to obey the decisions of the Party.” Lenin successfully shattered the inner-Party Trotskyist opposition. Taking no risks, the Tenth Party Congress banned inner-Party factions, and the Trotskyists’ hands were tied. “If you smash other parties, how can you tolerate disagreements in your own?” Lenin declared.
Lenin knew what had to be done next. In fact, the urgent measures to wind down the Civil War, stop the wholesale extermination of the Russian people, strengthen the Party, and introduce the NEP considerably bolstered the state apparatus and the Party itself. Otherwise, the Bolsheviks could have lost power entirely.
Lazar remembered well the words he had heard many years earlier during his first trip to Kiev. Uncle Lyovik had said then:
“Only that is good which is useful to the Jews. Always follow this precept.”
Lazar heard what he wanted to hear. The decision to ban disagreements and liquidate the opposition proved more important to him than such an economic idea as the NEP. For him, it was not so important where the economy was heading; what he considered far more vital was the inalienable right to change or correct the course of movement. That allowed the Party to remain invincible. Lenin firmly believed that “the Party is always right. This is the workers’ party, and by definition, it cannot be wrong.” Lazar agreed with Moscow. He would be the first to speak out against disagreements and deviations from the Party line. And he would let no one cast a shadow of suspicion upon him personally. He would listen attentively to what the leaders decided, and readily carry out their decrees, but only after he had firmly made sure that the opposition was completely wiped out. He would do everything possible to make himself noticed in Moscow. Of that he was certain.

When Lazar returned to Moscow in 1922, he did not recognize the city. The population had surged to 2.5 million. People flooded the capital, turning it into Russia’s commercial hub. Trams and horse-drawn streetcars appeared, bonfires burned in the streets, and red banners with white letters reading “Brotherhood and Freedom” hung everywhere.

Lazar settled into a small apartment on Gorky Street, above a bookshop, directly across from No. 14, the famous Eliseevsky store. His new position was called “instructor of the All-Union Central Council of Trade Unions.” He did not know to whom he owed this new appointment. When he had met Bulganin while passing through Nizhny Novgorod, Bulganin had remarked, “You’ll find out everything in time.” Lazar never liked critical comments, and although he liked Bulganin himself, Lazar snapped: “Go rattle an elephant’s balls.” Sometimes Bulganin turned into a real “old pepper pot.” Lazar dreaded to imagine what Bulganin would become in his old age.

Lazar reflected on his age and the years he had lived. Glancing in the mirror, he was pleasantly surprised. The years spent in Turkestan had done him nothing but good. He had lost considerable weight and now even seemed taller. His face had narrowed; his high forehead and small beard gave him, as some noted, a resemblance to Lenin. He was unsure whether to take that as a compliment. Not everyone working in the government was for Lenin. Many were for Trotsky. Lazar too was for Trotsky, but he sensed he should not get involved in open conflict and that, as he said, “the quieter you go, the further you’ll get.” Lazar changed his image. Every day he spent a few minutes before the mirror, as had been his habit in his youth, practicing a sweet smile for superiors and a stern look for subordinates. He rehearsed facial expressions for every occasion: indifference, reflection, and anger. This art of mimicry and gesture would soon prove very useful.

He would soon be thirty. He recalled the words said to him by the bookshop owner that very morning as he was leaving for work:
“By the age of thirty you should know where you are going. Unfortunately, many at your age have no idea.”

Lazar knew exactly where he was going. He wanted to tell that old codger not to waste his breath on platitudes. For Lazar, like no one else, knew clearly where to go and how to maneuver.

He set off toward Red Square. He had a meeting arranged with members of the new Italian communist party, which was engaged in agitation work similar to what he himself had done in the past. At the gates of the Spasskaya Tower stood sentries with red stars on their caps. Each had a long carbine slung over his left shoulder. Before the Revolution, an icon of the Savior had hung above the entrance to the Spasskaya Tower, and everyone entering the Kremlin respectfully removed his hat. The icon had been torn down. It was no longer needed: new “saviors” of Russia now sat in the Kremlin, and stars, not crosses, hung over it. Perhaps one day Lazar might be lucky enough to meet Trotsky or Lenin in one of the Kremlin Palace’s countless corridors.

Lazar held out his pass to the sentry. This sentry, instead of a carbine, had a holster with a pistol at his side. Lazar was told to join the queue; about eight people had gathered. A few minutes later a duty officer appeared. He read out several names from a list. Each of those waiting, including Lazar, on hearing his name, stepped forward. One after another they passed through the checkpoint. No one removed his cap. The group silently climbed a staircase and found themselves in a small, dark corridor. Lazar did not know where they were. He could only guess it was the Senate building, but all was quiet. Everything seemed dead. Going up one more floor, they heard voices. The group approached a door from which soft light streamed. Lazar could already see several people chatting in a foreign language. Someone behind him whispered: “Italians. They’re waiting for a reception with Lenin.” With Lenin?! His heart began to pound. Could it be that he would see Lenin himself? He had heard his voice on a recording while working on the agit-train, he had seen photographs of him, but he had never yet managed to see Lenin in the flesh. The group drew level with the doorway. Four Italians were talking with a small, dark-haired woman whose soft yet determined voice sounded louder than the others. Again a whisper came: “Nadezhda Krupskaya—Lenin’s wife.” Lazar quickly swept his gaze over all those present: four Italians and eight Russians. The unwritten rule was that the hosts outnumber the guests roughly two to one. This made it possible to take charge and ensure a reliable rear guard. The escort approached Krupskaya and handed her the list. With the habitual briskness of a schoolteacher, she ran her eyes down it and began introducing the newcomers to the guests. She did not give names and surnames, but simply explained what each did in the new Soviet government. When she finished, Krupskaya invited everyone to follow her into a brightly lit room. Nadezhda Konstantinovna explained that this was Lenin’s bedroom. The room was small. A writing desk covered with blue baize stood by the window, with an armchair in front of it. Several books lay on the desk. To the right stood an iron bed covered with a simple checked blanket. Krupskaya recounted that the blanket had been a gift from Lenin’s mother in 1910, when they were living in Sweden. Above the bed hung a photograph of Nadezhda Konstantinovna and Lenin. To the left of the bed was a bookshelf, and opposite it a small sofa. Beyond the bedroom lay a dining room with a dining table in the center, covered with a white tablecloth. Wicker armchairs were arranged around the table. A large wall clock and several flower pots completed the room. Answering a question, Krupskaya explained that the family, consisting of Lenin, his younger sister Maria Ilyinichna, and herself, ate the simplest of food. For example, lunch might be a bowl of soup, a piece of black bread, cheese, and tea. From the dining room everyone proceeded to the living room, which proved more gloomy than the other rooms. Here there were only two small sofas facing each other and a few little tables with lamps on them. All the furniture was arranged around a large Persian carpet. The beautiful combination of blue, green, orange, red, and yellow immediately drew everyone’s attention. The living room walls were paneled in dark wood. Most of those entering admired the carpet and did not at once notice something—or rather someone—in the corner. First Lazar saw a piercing gaze of green eyes fixed on him. They were cat’s eyes. The cat was sitting on the lap of a man with thin lips and a face unlike his portraits—very high cheekbones and a huge bald head. The man was carefully observing the group. There was no doubt who this man was, sitting with a cat on his lap. Lenin sat in a rocking chair. It was him! One of the Italians stepped forward, bent down, and kissed Lenin on both cheeks. It was Bordiga, head of the Italian delegation. He began to deliver a speech on the future of Soviet–Italian relations, but Lenin quickly reached out and seized him by the sleeve.

“No, no. We’ve already heard enough speeches at the congress. Let’s just talk.”

He smiled. His voice was soft. Lenin seemed inclined to chat in a friendly way. He switched easily into Italian. Quite fluently, Lenin explained to the visitors that party and state work took up so much of his time that he had no chance to rest. He recounted that in the past his favorite pastimes had been hunting and walking in the countryside. He also recalled how he had enjoyed cycling, wandering in the forest, swimming, and skiing. The delegates exchanged glances, as if asking one another why he was telling them all this. It was clear that Lenin had no intention of discussing serious matters with this “audience.” It was simple, noncommittal conversation, nothing more. Lenin was interested in the theater, but with his workload he rarely managed to get away for a performance, even to the nearby Bolshoi Theater. Now he preferred to relax in his living room, sitting in the armchair, stroking the cat, and listening to his sister Maria Ilyinichna play the piano. He loved the sonatas of Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Grieg, Wagner, and Tchaikovsky. His favorite piece was Beethoven’s “Appassionata.”

“I know nothing finer than this piece. I could listen to it every day. It’s hard to believe that such enchanting music was written by a human being. I always think with pride of the amazing creations people are capable of.”

Lenin fell silent. The Russians shifted from foot to foot. The Italians beamed with smiles, but Lazar understood that bewilderment lurked behind those smiles. All this was obvious show and could not go on for long. After a minute, the duty officer who had escorted them appeared, and the group again followed him into the corridor. Nadezhda Konstantinovna had vanished somewhere, and the members of the group looked questioningly at one another, not knowing what else to expect. The Italians pretended to be very pleased with the meeting with Lenin. Lazar felt something quite different. He had hoped to get more out of this visit. Ultimately, he became convinced that Lenin was a short, thin, fragile man with a burr in his speech. He had imagined Lenin differently. But all the same, he had met “the greatest” and heard his voice, even if he had mostly spoken in Italian. Yes, he could now tell everyone that he had met Lenin, had even been in his bedroom, and if anyone pressed him, he could even describe the interior. Information like that always makes an impression. After all, he was almost thirty now, and he needed to be in the right place at the right time.

This «necessary place» was now located even further south. At the beginning of 1922, Lazar was returning to Turkestan again. He was heading there as a representative of the Turkestan Bureau of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Bolsheviks. It was a very honorable post. He was to deal with the incipient separatist movements (the Basmachi), but at that time he had no idea that the results of this work would affect his future.

Lazar did not stay long in Turkestan. It was not a difficult task for him to smash a separatist nest far from Moscow. He had at his disposal detachments of the Red Army and a strong local organization. Three months later a telegram arrived recalling him back to the capital. He could not have felt happier. Although he was relatively independent in this region and had no competitors in the local committee, except for Malenkov, Lazar knew that he was far from the center and the main events where all the real action was. So he was very glad for the change and believed he had rightfully earned his return to the capital. He parted with his colleagues without regret. Now he could forget about their existence. If, he thought, they were no longer needed, they could simply be cast aside. He felt that one should pay attention only to those useful people who might be of service now or in the future.

His merits had at last been noticed. Once again he gathered his belongings, which fit into three canvas sacks, and headed for the train that would take him north to Moscow. He planned to make a traditional stop in Nizhny Novgorod. This city was closer to the capital, and Lazar did not understand why his older brothers had not advanced as he had. Mikhail had already become a member of the presidium of the local Cheka. Unlike Tashkent, Nizhny Novgorod was quickly becoming a major industrial center of the country. Lazar felt that this city offered an excellent opportunity for an ambitious man to climb the career ladder. He intended to meet with Mikhail, Yuri, Nikita Khrushchev, Nikolai Bulganin, and, of course, with Rosa.

It was precisely the upcoming meeting with Rosa that determined his decision to stop in Nizhny Novgorod. He had begun to take an active part in Rosa’s destiny. In childhood he had barely paid her any attention. She, in turn, had ignored him and always stayed close to their mother. But times had changed. She loved to talk with him, especially about the fate of the country and the situation in the world. Once she had met a woman from Canada, who told her about the beauty, riches, and great opportunities on the American continent. Now Rosa was trying to find any information about Canada and the United States. Her only conversation partner, with whom she could talk for hours, was Lena Bulganina. She too had lost her parents early, and this circumstance brought them closer. Lazar felt that Rosa still lacked self‑confidence. But he did not want to pressure her. She had to want to develop her own character on her own.

For several reasons this meeting came in handy. Yuri had a son, and they named him Moses after his grandfather. To his own surprise, Lazar happily held the one-year-old nephew on his lap. He had not suspected in himself the capacity for such feelings. He had not yet thought about marriage and children. Memories of his own childhood rather repelled him from it. But perhaps it was precisely this lack of interest that drew the attention of a tall, shy girl. In fact, she was the same height as Lazar, but compared to the other women in the room she seemed significantly taller. Mikhail, Yuri, and their wives were short. The same could be said of the Bulganins and Nikita. Lazar immediately noticed this tall girl. He wanted to be sure that this girl would not harm his political career. If all the high‑ranking figures in the party were married, then he too had to settle the marriage question. Otherwise he would look like a black sheep.

The girl’s name was Maria, and she worked at a textile factory. She had long dark hair, which she put up in a large bun at the back of her head. Light brown eyes, Lazar noted, went very well with her green dress. She could not be called a beauty, but she looked attractive, and her soft voice reminded him of Rosa’s. She worked together with Lena Bulganina, who introduced her to Lazar. It was in the Bulganins’ habit: they believed that everyone should have a mate. First on their matchmaking list was Lazar, followed by Rosa.

Maria told a little about herself. She turned out to be a local. Her parents had been engaged in trade before the revolution. Now they were simple working people. Lazar caught a note of resentment in her voice. Unlike him, she was Russian.

One of the guests belonged neither to the Jews nor to the Russians. He was introduced as Anastas Ivanovich Mikoyan. Moscow had sent him to Nizhny Novgorod to work as secretary of the Nizhny Novgorod Gubernia Committee of the RCP (b). He was immediately met with distrust. Lazar could have predicted that for him. Most of Moscow’s appointees found no support in their new posts. Lazar had experienced this himself when he arrived in Tashkent. So he was sympathetic to Mikoyan’s position.

Lazar liked Mikoyan immediately. He was a medium‑height man with swarthy skin, black curly hair, and a small mustache. A hooked, narrow nose and turned‑up lips gave his face a sour expression. Only when he looked into his large brown eyes did Lazar catch a combination of gentleness and intelligence. Unlike Nikita and Nikolai, who had already grown potbellies, this man kept himself in good physical shape. Beside him was his wife, Ashkhen, a short and quiet woman. Mikoyan was born in Armenia, in the village of Sanain, and had studied at the Nersesian Armenian theological seminary in Tiflis. Lazar immediately understood that this circumstance would have to be reckoned with.

When evaluating people, Lazar divided them into four categories. Those like Nikita he controlled; although they were lower in rank, they could be useful. Most people resembled a gray peasant mass, with whom Lazar did not stand on ceremony and did not even pay attention. But there were also those who were at the same level of the social ladder or slightly higher, but whom he disliked or distrusted. Generally, he still trusted no one, although occasionally he had to express sympathies, disagreements, and views on events in the country. Most often he associated with such people for the sake of rumors, for obtaining scraps of information, the juicier the better.

But there were also those who stood on the same level as he, even though they had their own interests, and toward these Lazar felt genuine affection. Nikolai Bulganin and Anastas Mikoyan belonged to this category of people. Both were educated, and Lazar honestly admitted to himself that this was precisely what he lacked. They had a solid understanding of what was happening in Russia. There was also something lordly, aristocratic about them. Lazar needed information that could be useful, and these two were excellent sources of information about the situation at the top. Bulganin became especially talkative when he drank. Lazar and Anastas barely touched their wine. They both slowly sipped from their glasses, watching as Nikolai’s huge nose flushed red and seemed to grow larger after each sip of cognac. He was one of the few Russians who did not like vodka. Staring at the half‑empty glass, Bulganin said:

“Big changes are expected. Lenin has already had a stroke.” “What stroke?” asked Lazar. “What kind?” Bulganin chuckled. “Better ask Rosa. She’s going to be a doctor. It’s a brain stroke. So he won’t be able to move much. I heard he’s partially paralyzed. I don’t know how much it has affected his mental faculties.” “I know,” Lazar interjected. “When I saw him, he looked like he had been ill. It’s not his first stroke.” Mikoyan, as usual, listened in silence. He spoke little and was an excellent listener. Lazar even envied this ability. He himself was not good at listening to people. He preferred to speak and make others listen to him. But now Lazar decided to follow Mikoyan’s example and listen.

“You know what I just thought? You should do something for Rosa. Why should she rot in this backwater? Get her into Moscow University. She’ll make a fine doctor. Just tell Stalin what you need. When Lenin is gone, he’ll take his place.” Lazar pricked up his ears: Stalin will take Lenin’s place! So it’s Stalin, not Trotsky? ‘The man of steel,’ but to me he’s still a pockmarked scum! – Bulganin continued, head deep in his glass.

He raised his eyes to Lazar and Mikoyan. “Shit! I shouldn’t have said that, really. After all, he’s my boss, and who knows whether the two of you can be trusted?” Bulganin smiled, reached for the cognac bottle, but it turned out to be empty. “Shit!” Bulganin muttered, and reached toward the sideboard for a new bottle.

Lazar watched him carefully. He had said very little, but Lazar caught the main point for himself. Lenin was slowly dying, if not already dead, and Trotsky? What about Trotsky? Exiled to Central Asia, Lazar had been out of the loop, but that, as it later turned out, saved him; Lazar had not drawn attention to himself and remained in Stalin’s apparatus. In Lazar’s head spun the names of Kamenev, Bukharin, and Malenkov. But Nikolai had clearly told him who had transferred him to Moscow—Stalin. And it was this man to whom Lazar must now pay close attention.

The Eleventh Party Congress turned out to be the last one Lenin attended. The Central Committee elected Stalin as General Secretary of the Communist Party. It was rumored that this was done against Lenin’s wishes, who supposedly remarked that “this cook will prepare spicy dishes.” During Lenin’s illness, the party was governed by the triumvirate of Zinoviev, Kamenev, and Stalin. The fact that Kamenev was married to Trotsky’s sister did not prevent him from allying with Zinoviev and Stalin against his own relative. Trotsky was appointed to the honorary but powerless position of Chairman of the Military Revolutionary Committee. In effect, he was removed from deciding the most important party matters. A fierce struggle for power began.

Stalin recalled Kaganovich to Moscow, but during the first two months after returning to the capital, Lazar had still not managed to see his new chief. He was given an apartment on the top floor of a building on Sobachya Ploshchadka (Dog Square) in the Arbat district. The name dated back to the seventeenth century, when the tsar’s kennels stood on this spot. It was located at the intersection of Malaya and Bolshaya Nikolopeskovsky streets. Every morning he went to the building of the Ministry of Defense on Gogolevsky Boulevard, where he received a list of names for further study. He was to single out those party members whom he knew personally and provide a character reference for them. He was not sure what it all meant, but he conscientiously read through the names of hundreds, even thousands, of people from all over Russia. It seemed that the new government was attempting to compile a card index of every inhabitant of the country. He understood that Stalin needed to lay the foundation for his power. Illness had almost erased Lenin from political life, and Stalin had noticeably stepped up his activity in his new party post as General Secretary. But Lazar still had no opportunity to meet him. He knew that Stalin worked in the Kremlin, but since last year’s meeting with Lenin, he had not again passed through the Spassky Gate.

By June, Kaganovich was assigned not only to review the lists but also to organize a group of party instructors. This was a responsible task. Lazar realized that his value to Stalin would be determined by the people he selected. Therefore, he carefully analyzed the names to pick those who could be loyal to Stalin. Now he clearly saw his position. He had to win the complete trust of the man sitting in the Kremlin. From Stalin came orders to “look into so-and-so,” questions about “the suitability” of specific candidates for certain posts, and private inquiries about individuals. In each case, Lazar had to be certain that his personal loyalty could not be questioned. He understood the meaning of these instructions and requests and carried them out with thoroughness and precision. If this was a “shadow cabinet” awaiting Lenin’s death, then he would spare no effort to become a member of it. It was clear that Stalin was building his own power structure, despite the fact that Lenin was still alive. It was no secret to anyone that Trotsky, too, was grasping for power, as were Kamenev and Zinoviev, who were also trying to grab a “piece of the pie.” But that no longer mattered. Stalin had already drawn Lazar close to him, pulling him up from the lower ranks, slowly but surely. And he would not change anything.

Over the next two months, Lazar worked seven days a week, eighteen hours a day, to give his new chief what he wanted. He had no time for anything else. He even stopped going out for lunch to a restaurant and ate at his desk in his room. He even stopped writing to Maria. Now he got up every day at five in the morning to be at work before others, stayed until eleven at night, and went home only to sleep. After five hours he was back at his post. If tangled problems arose, he spent the night right in his office to save time. After two months, his efforts were recognized. He received a new position as head of the Organizational and Distribution Department of the Central Committee of the Russian Communist Party (Bolsheviks). He became the head of the “cadres department,” a very important post in the new government. Now he was bound to meet the man who had secured his rise. And they did indeed meet, although another two months passed, and other people were present at that meeting.

For the second time in his life, Lazar entered the Kremlin through the Spassky Gate. Everything was completely different from just a year ago. Activity was felt everywhere. People hurried from one place to another, entering and exiting buildings; they carried papers in their hands and talked on the move. In the short time that had passed since the Bolsheviks seized power, it was clear to everyone that the Kremlin had become the main place, the concentration of power and the center of the whole country. The Kremlin had ceased to be a military fortress. Although soldiers of the Red Army could still be seen, their numbers had noticeably diminished. There was less suspicion compared to the first days of Soviet power. It seemed that fears of a possible uprising against the new order had dissipated. The Bolsheviks were securely ensconced in the Kremlin. The First World War was over, the White Army was defeated, and opposition parties had been outlawed.

That morning, ten people gathered at the gates of the Spasskaya Tower: nine men and one woman. Among them, Lazar saw people he remembered from Petrograd: Kirov, Ordzhonikidze, and Kuibyshev. The group was in high spirits. They laughed among themselves and even joked about the only woman among them, who had come from the countryside. The men compared the increase in watermelon production to her huge breasts and burst into laughter. But as soon as they crossed the threshold of the reception room of the man they had been summoned to meet, their merriment vanished instantly. Malenkov, who served as assistant to the General Secretary, led them into the office. Stalin stood behind a huge desk. A portrait of Karl Marx hung on the wall. There were no other portraits, not even a photograph of Lenin. The only furniture in the office consisted of wooden chairs opposite the desk and a small table in the corner. The room had a distinctly spartan look. Up close, Stalin looked different. His face bore the marks of smallpox, which he had suffered in childhood, and his eyes had a yellowish hue. He was of medium height, shorter than Lazar, and if not for his thick hair and equally thick mustache, Lazar thought, he would have a completely plain appearance. He did not look strong and did not resemble the typical Georgian, with a broad nature and emotional temperament. On the contrary, he appeared perfectly calm. He was dressed in a military tunic, buttoned up to the neck. For the July weather, such clothing was too warm, and besides, the only window was tightly shut. Stalin held a pipe in his hand. Lazar could not remember what Stalin said to those who entered. He seemed to have muttered something as a greeting. It looked as though he was carefully studying the people introduced to him and matching their names and positions, and, despite his unimposing appearance, was making it clear who was the master here. Be that as it may, Lazar sensed the power emanating from Stalin. He understood that one could not trifle with this man, that this man held all control in his hands. The meeting with Stalin took no more than ten minutes, and all that Lazar could later recall were the words: “I hope we will see each other again.” And the group left the office.

The next time he saw Stalin was at the end of December at the Bolshoi Theatre. That day at noon, the First Congress of Soviets of the USSR was set to open there. The plan was to create a multi‑national unified state that would endure for centuries. On December 30, Lazar was invited to attend the congress session. By that time, a highly dubious document signed on December 14 had been circulated among the party’s inner circle. Because of his position, Lazar was one of the first to read it. This was the so‑called “Lenin’s testament,” written on several sheets, which gave a critical assessment of all the candidates for his post. This purported “testament of Lenin” tore all potential contenders for absolute power to shreds, but it gave Trotsky a positive appraisal! Lenin supposedly wrote that Trotsky possessed extraordinary abilities, and his only shortcoming was a tendency toward administration. He ruled out Kamenev and Zinoviev as “unreliable,” passed over Pyatakov because of his “inability to grasp political problems,” and struck Bukharin off the list due to a failure to understand Marxist dialectics, even though “he is regarded as the darling of the whole party, but soft as wax on which demagogues can write whatever they please.” Then he moved on to Stalin. “Joseph Vissarionovich does not know how to handle power properly. I can only hope that our party members will remove him from his post and do so as soon as possible.” The nature of the document left no doubt that it had originated in Trotsky’s apparatus. By that time Lenin was already completely isolated by Trotsky.

Lazar had to quickly weigh the situation and decide for himself whom to support and in which direction to move. He must not remain on the sidelines, but not just yet. He needed to get his bearings quickly, to be able to see and listen. He would get more information at the congress. He just had to keep remembering Uncle Lyovik’s words.

The Bolshoi Theatre was located not far from where Lazar worked, and he could see the theatre’s portico from his window. But he had never yet been inside that magnificent building.

The congress was opened by Lenin’s comrade‑in‑arms Pyotr Smidovich. His speech was clear and understandable to everyone. He said that the unification of the Soviet republics had become ‘a richest source of new strength for defending their interests and for constructive work, supported by the working people of all nations.’ Lazar looked around at those seated near him. Many were barely twenty, and they were listening breathlessly to the party veteran’s speech. Lazar suddenly realized that he was only a few years older than they were, but the years of party work had matured him greatly, and his present post opened great opportunities before him – something many of those sitting in the same hall lacked. The floor was given to Mikhail Frunze. The working class of Ukraine had elected him as its delegate to the congress. He read out the resolution on the formation of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. When he finished, everyone present rose from their seats and applauded. By a unanimous vote, the delegates approved the decision to create the USSR. A few minutes later, the heads of all delegations from all the republics hurried to the Presidium table to put their signatures to the treaty; each signature was accompanied by thunderous applause. Lazar looked around. He searched for familiar faces but found only a few. He did not see Stalin, but spotted Voroshilov standing at the edge of the stage. He did not see Trotsky, nor even Lenin, but he did see Ordzhonikidze sitting in the front row next to Bukharin. Finally, when the last delegate left the stage, Mikhail Kalinin rose from his seat and stressed the historical significance of the accomplished event. Everyone burst into enthusiastic applause. In a single impulse, people stood and sang “The Internationale.” Many had tears in their eyes. In the surge of emotion, some hugged their neighbors. A few – very few – remained silent, as if pondering what had just taken place. Here and there thoughtful, serious faces could be glimpsed. Lazar looked around with a critical eye. Everything blurred together: people, faces, voices. He glanced up at the huge crystal chandelier. It tinkled faintly. Lazar quietly watched what was happening around him. He was no longer that naïve youth who had listened to fairy‑tale speeches at meetings in Kiev. He had stepped past that. He would soon be thirty. He thought of Uncle Lyovik, Morris, even of his father and mother, of Rosa, his brothers, everyone he had known in Kabany, and realized that none of them knew what was really going on in the country where they were born. But he himself, Lazar, was becoming a part of that history. They would only be able to read about what had happened, while he was a participant and witness to this momentous event that would affect the world, his own life, and the future as a whole. He had grown up and matured. The time had come to make a final decision. He thought of Maria and decided to marry her and bring her to Moscow. He again scanned the crowd. Everyone was looking over there, at the edge of the stage, at the unremarkable figure of a short man. He stood with a pipe in his mouth, his hands clasped behind his back.

Five days later, Trotsky’s apparatus did not relent and sent an addendum to “Lenin’s testament,” describing Stalin as “rude and capricious.” World history knows well such forgeries, which have played decisive roles—and by the time they were exposed as fakes, it had long been too late. For example, the “Donation of Constantine,” a declaration by which Emperor Constantine supposedly “gave” Rome as a gift to the Pope and severed Italy from the Orthodox Roman Empire of Constantinople. All these forgeries in world history trace back to the same circles, and they know this perfectly well, yet they continue to cultivate them.

It became clear to Lazarus that Trotsky was going for broke. During his illness, Lenin was completely isolated, and Lenin’s personal physician was a man of Trotsky’s named Levin. No one was permitted access to Lenin. Upon Lenin’s death, power was supposed to pass automatically to his co-dictator—Trotsky. Trotsky had no rivals even close to him. Behind Trotsky stood financial resources that others could not even dream of. Trotsky made two revolutions in Russia, and once the Bolsheviks came to power, he carried all the practical work on his shoulders. It was Trotsky who seized power, dispersed the Constituent Assembly, created the Red Army, and defended the new order. It was Trotsky—simultaneously chairman of the illegal Petrograd Soviet and the Bolshevik Military-Revolutionary Committee—who, almost immediately upon returning from America in July 1917, while Lenin was resting in a hut out in the countryside, began the coup d’état; and then, when it failed, successfully repeated the attempt in October. Is there even a comparable example in history of such successful persistence? When Stalin managed to push Trotsky from power, Trotsky—on October 7, 1927, the tenth anniversary of the revolution—again undertook an unsuccessful coup attempt aimed at eliminating Stalin. As Trotsky mentions in his memoirs, to carry out any coup d’état he had no need for the people at all. Trotsky always found 300 trained and loyal fighters sufficient. No individual in history, neither before nor after Trotsky, has had such experience in carrying out a series of coups d’état and always emerging unscathed. After the revolution, Trotsky directed everything that was in any way connected with armed men: defense, transport, the deliberate destruction of other religions, foreign concessions—and few know that the Cheka was also Trotsky’s brainchild. The entire institution of political commissars, placed in every state cell, whether in civil society, the army, or the Cheka, answered directly to Trotsky. And Trotsky had no intention of tolerating people anywhere who were not personally loyal to him, no matter their nationality. Trotsky alone was an entire avalanche that swept everyone from its path. Trotsky was exactly like Louis XIV, who once said of himself, “I am the state.” Trotsky could have done everything on his own; he needed no one except 300 loyal fighters and money, which he always had. It simply turned out historically that he had to share power with Lenin, whom Trotsky regarded as a mere “figurehead general.” Trotsky was a rocket; having made the revolution in Russia, he already saw the entire world at his feet and had no intention of delaying. Lenin merely hindered Trotsky. Fanny Kaplan was Trotsky’s person. Consider just one fact: Fanny Kaplan was the only person arrested in the entire history of the USSR who was held in custody not in the Lubyanka, and not in prison, but inside the Kremlin itself! Lenin’s physician, Levin, always carried out only Trotsky’s orders. What, then, it seemed, could stop Trotsky on his path to usurping supreme power, when it had long been in his pocket? Stalin was not the first man whom Trotsky eliminated. Yakov Sverdlov was also eliminated by Trotsky. The young Yakov Sverdlov was a rising star of the party. He was the first prime minister of the Soviet republic. Yakov Sverdlov was clearly more gifted than Trotsky. Even at that time, Sverdlov held all the organizational work of the party in his hands. But he overdid it with the destruction of the tsar’s family. The event became so odious that Trotsky did not miss his chance. Dr. Levin was a master of his craft. Trotsky pinned the murder of the tsar’s family on Sverdlov. Cunning and maturity gained the upper hand over energy and talent.

It was Trotsky—his hands tied by the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk—who ordered Yakov Blyumkin to shoot the German ambassador Mirbach in order to halt the peace process. And Yakov Blyumkin was not just some student—Yakov Blyumkin was a high-ranking chief of the Moscow Cheka and an official person. It was precisely as an official state representative that Blyumkin was received by the German ambassador Mirbach, and Blyumkin was not even imprisoned for murdering the ambassador of a foreign power.

It was Trotsky who destroyed Stalin’s main allies. The country’s chief security man, Dzerzhinsky, whom Trotsky also did not control—Dr. Levin again “treated” him. People’s Commissar of Defense Mikhail Frunze, installed by the triumvirate of Kamenev–Zinoviev–Stalin in Trotsky’s place, did not last long as minister and died during an operation that Trotsky’s doctors compelled him to undergo. Mikhail Frunze had nothing more than a stomach ulcer, but the doctors always worked for Trotsky. Subsequently, the “Doctors’ Plot” would become the decisive stage in the victory of the Trotskyites in the USSR.

Trotsky did not stop there. At the same time, he eliminated Army Commander Grigory Kotovsky, whom Mikhail Frunze was to have appointed as his deputy. Grigory Kotovsky was shot dead by Trotsky’s man, a certain Meyer Zayder, who was the security chief of a local sugar factory. Why did Trotsky deal so swiftly with his successors as People’s Commissar of Defense? — Because he had no intention of surrendering this most crucial state post to his political opponents. That would have been tantamount to defeat. For the post of People’s Commissar of Defense, Trotsky was pushing his relative Iona Yakir. Yakir was a relative of Trotsky and the son of the wealthiest Moldavian Jew. And Grigory Kotovsky, like Frunze, were poor Moldavians, and therefore had long known Yakir and hated him with every fiber of their being. Therefore, neither of them had any chance of escaping Trotsky.

Lazar Kaganovich emerges precisely during this feverish work, helping Stalin find replacements for his people, whom Trotsky was mowing down daily. At the same time, Lazar sensed with an inner instinct that his idol, Trotsky, would lose, and so Lazar decided to himself that in the long run he would be of more use to Trotsky’s cause if he lay low and did not compromise himself by showing sympathy for Trotsky. Lazar clenched his teeth; he was playing a subtle game.

Stalin, who already felt the breath of death, was saved by the personal ambitions of other party leaders: Kamenev and Zinoviev. They all belonged to the official five party leaders: Lenin, Trotsky, Zinoviev, Kamenev, and the youngest and least valued among them — Stalin. Zinoviev’s name was well known. He headed the Comintern, which meant directing the entire global communist apparatus. Under his authority was the party organization of the former capital, Petrograd; he was Lenin’s co-author. Kamenev was also Lenin’s co-author and headed the new capital, Moscow. Both of them wrote and shaped Lenin’s works. In effect, they spoke on Lenin’s behalf. Of the three, Stalin turned out to be the least known and most “green.” Kamenev and Zinoviev treated Stalin condescendingly, patted the young Caucasian “genatsvale” on the shoulder, and did not even consider him a potential rival. They believed that only the two of them, Zinoviev and Kamenev, were still capable of defeating the seemingly invincible Trotsky, and then afterwards they would somehow come to an agreement between themselves.

The post of General Secretary of the Party, which Stalin received, had only just been created, and at that time it did not at all carry the leadership meaning that it later acquired. Secretary — that is exactly what it meant, a secretary, no more, no less, simply a clerk to the leaders, albeit a general one, to the top people of the state.

However, once Stalin became General Secretary, he did not let slip the last chance that opened to him; he began to seriously control the administrative apparatus and promote his own people into party and government bodies. That is what Lazar was doing. Stalin took this very seriously, as seriously as a man could whose death sentence Trotsky already carried in his pocket. In October 1923, Trotsky accused Stalin of manipulation. He even brought forty-six high-ranking party members to a Central Committee meeting in support of his charge. Stalin, who had the support of the majority in the Central Committee, repulsed Trotsky and, in his turn, characterized Trotsky’s criticism not merely as a “gross political error” but as an “anti-Leninist demonstration threatening party unity.” He warned Trotsky that such behavior was “incompatible with membership in the party.” It was clear that Stalin, too, had no intention of surrendering ahead of time. Stalin, too, was a steadfast fighter. The attacks on Stalin intensified. However, as the saying goes, God Himself helped Stalin. Trotsky suddenly fell seriously ill, and the illness knocked him out of active politics for almost a year. Trotsky’s people were left without a leader, and there was no one to replace him. Trotsky could not tolerate personalities around him who were capable of competing with him. In this situation, this was a sudden collapse. At the beginning of the year, Trotsky left for treatment in the Caucasus. Lenin’s condition worsened, but Trotsky was not informed. Stalin, on behalf of the Politburo, managed to send Trotsky a telegram insistently urging him to go for treatment and rest in Sukhumi. Stalin knew that Lenin did not have long to live and did everything to ensure that Trotsky would be absent from the capital at the critical moment. Moreover, Trotsky so considered the question of his usurpation of power to be settled that he focused entirely on the moment when, having gained absolute power into his hands, he would again rear Russia up on its hind legs and cast it into the furnace of world revolution. Trotsky already imagined himself the absolute dictator not only of Russia, but also of Europe, China, India, and the entire Eurasian continent. Trotsky’s people had already tried to seize power in Germany and Hungary. They succeeded only temporarily, but now they were all waiting for Trotsky to gain absolute power and come to their aid. Trotsky decided that the deed was done and resolved to rest and recuperate before the decisive world revolution, when he would once again need to mount a white horse. In any Jewish library in America, there is a children’s book called “Great Jews.” Abraham, Jacob, Moses, King David, Maimonides, Moses Mendelssohn, and, of course, Lev Davidovich Bronstein – Trotsky. Trotsky stands in the front rank of the most important personalities of the Jewish nation. Millions of Jewish children in all countries learn from his example.

Over the past year, Lazar turned his attention to his personal life. A small wedding was held in Nizhny Novgorod, attended only by his brothers, his sister Rosa, and the Bulganins. And soon Maria was expecting a child. When a girl was born, she was named Maya, in honor of Moses. Lazar did not know why he had followed the ancient Jewish tradition of naming the first child in the family after a recently deceased close relative. He had always ignored Jewish customs. Of course, Maria tried to maintain normal human relationships in the family and distract her husband from his work concerns. She hoped that perhaps she would succeed in softening him, and he would begin to show compassion toward people. With the birth of their daughter, she devoted herself entirely to raising her. Meanwhile, Lazar spent less and less time at home, busy with affairs in the Kremlin.

Tense days arrived. With the onset of 1924, rumors about the deterioration of Lenin’s health intensified in government circles. Those who managed to see him would bet a bottle of vodka, a jar of tomatoes, or a cardboard box of papirosy on the day, hour, and even minute when Lenin would finally die. A kind of perverse gaiety seeped into every corner of the bureaucracy. Every apparatchik felt responsible for what was happening. It began to resemble a huge lottery. However, this bacchanalia was not carried beyond the walls of government buildings. The population was kept in ignorance of the real events and believed that Lenin firmly held the reins of the country. Such an approach toward the people—where the average Russian person had no real information about what was going on—ensured the colossal success of the new system.

Lazar was changing his child’s clothes, something he did extremely rarely, when he heard the news of Lenin’s death on January 21, 1924. Despite holding a high post, he learned of the leader’s death from shouts coming from the street. Rumors always spread quickly, especially unpleasant ones, and he hurried to his office, where he was met with silence. It seemed strange: while ordinary citizens on the streets ran from one crowd to another and heatedly exchanged scraps of information, in the government offices employees continued to bustle around with stacks of papers as if nothing had happened, only occasionally whispering to one another. Most Muscovites took the news of the leader’s death to heart. Many wept. Their grief was genuine. But in the Kremlin itself, the people who lived there were more troubled not by the fact of Lenin’s death, but by what would follow. Sorrow was replaced by fear. Much of what Lenin had said in recent years had already been forgotten. It seemed that Lenin had fulfilled the role assigned to him, and now the only thing left was for him to enter the history textbooks. But much was happening that you would not read about in a history textbook. Bulganin considered it a physical fact that there was no practical alternative to Trotsky. Once, when he and Lazar were alone, he said:

“How many people know how cruel Trotsky is? Who knows that Trotsky signed a vast number of execution orders? Does the people know that Trotsky wiped out entire villages and settlements—and back then a village could number several thousand people? Many villages were under martial law. Mikhail told me how, in his region, they not only removed Communists from their posts but even shot those who questioned the party’s policies. They were declared traitors to Soviet power, deserving the death penalty. Do you think people understand that Trotsky, who then officially was our leader alongside Lenin, gave orders to destroy Orthodox churches? Do you think they know about the religious persecution, about how many Christians and clergymen were killed for their adherence to the faith?”

Nikolai Bulganin did not need to tell Lazar all this. During the years of Trotskyite leadership, the country had seen rampant lawlessness, cruelty, and inhumanity, officially called the “Red Terror.” Lazar knew the inside story—that it was Trotsky who was responsible for unleashing the “Red Terror,” that Trotsky was behind the mass arrests and wholesale executions. But Lazar was not moved; he had long since made his choice. He listened to Bulganin, and his heart sensed that a long, hidden struggle lay ahead.

Lenin was no more. His associates of various ranks now strained in public to force expressions of grief over the heavy loss onto their faces. Lazar did not know where Lenin had died. Everyone had their own opinion on that: some said it happened in the Crimea, others insisted Lenin had passed away at his dacha outside Moscow, and there were even those who named Finland. All Lazar knew was that the coffin bearing Lenin’s body would be brought to Moscow by special train on January 23. The funeral was solemn and accompanied by emotional speeches, but that was only on the surface. Lazar caught on that most of the displays of feeling were showy and insincere. He himself was hardly moved. He knew what was really going on, and as he stood on Red Square that cold, windy day, looking at the mass of people, what occupied him were not sad thoughts, but whether the planned “performance” would go off without a hitch. The concepts of “Lenin” and “Leninism” were elevated to the status of divine worship. Lazar heard that Simbirsk, Lenin’s birthplace, would be renamed Ulyanovsk, and Petrograd would now be called Leningrad. Throngs of people poured across Red Square. Scarlet banners rippled everywhere. Even Stalin’s speech was a model of what Lazar called “emotional propaganda.” His address ended with the words: “We must guard and strengthen the purity of the Party ranks, fortify our unity, and consolidate the dictatorship of the working class in alliance with the peasantry!” The crowd cheered his words joyfully. With Trotsky absent, Stalin looked to the people like Lenin’s lawful successor. The funeral quickly receded into the past and was forgotten amid ongoing events. Almost immediately, Lazar found himself drawn into the inner machinery of the government apparatus—something that was, in fact, the result of the race to fill the vacant posts in Lenin’s structure. Events unfolded with lightning speed. The Party membership designation was officially changed from “Bolshevik” to “Communist.” New positions were created at a furious pace, both within the Kremlin and around it. Lazar even spotted his own name mentioned among the candidates for membership in the Central Committee. New names and new officials surfaced. Mikhail and Yuri Kaganovich received new appointments. Roza entered a medical institute in Moscow, while Mikoyan, Bulganin, and Voroshilov moved to the capital. Even Khrushchev was recalled and placed under Lazar’s command. A new surname appeared on the horizon—Molotov (his real name being Skryabin). He became head of the Central Commission and Lazar’s immediate superior. Molotov was a short, puny man with an unusually thin neck, rimless round glasses, and a piercing voice. His frail frame stood out among the imposing comrades whom fate had swept to the heights of power. And, unlike all the other claimants to the “throne,” he had a simple and heartfelt smile. Lazar liked Molotov, because he had no intention of removing Kaganovich. Over the years, Lazar learned that he was not the only one with American relatives; Molotov, through his wife’s side, also had relatives in America. (Polina Zhemchuzhina’s own brother was an American.)

Finally, Lazar Kaganovich was summoned for a talk with Stalin! That December day, Lazar appeared at the Spassky Gate around ten in the morning. Soon he found himself in the very same office where he had first met Stalin. The Soviet leader was looking through papers at an enormous desk. To take in the heap of papers lying before him, he was not sitting but standing behind the desk. Lazar noted again that Stalin was shorter than him. Lazar weighed about 90 kilograms, and Stalin seemed 10–15 kilograms lighter. He thought that Stalin had lost weight since their last meeting. Everything else was in place, including the facial expression from which you could not read what he was thinking or going through. “Sentiment is a woman’s quality,” Stalin once said.

Lazar was interested in Stalin’s biography and his tastes. He tried to learn as much about him as possible. He knew that Stalin led a Spartan lifestyle, was unpretentious in everyday matters, content with little, and disliked luxury.

Stalin, with a nod of his head, indicated one of the chairs without uttering a word. After Lazar sat down, Stalin also lowered himself onto a chair, took a cigarette from a small wooden box, and offered it to Lazar.

“Thank you, I don’t smoke.”

“That’s good.”

Stalin lit a pipe. Lazar watched the smoke rise in rings toward the portrait of Karl Marx. Stalin spoke in a low voice:

“Mikhail Kaganovich is now the Chairman of the Nizhny Novgorod Gubernia Council of People’s Economy. Yuri Kaganovich is a member of that Council. That’s good. Rosa? She will study, graduate from medical institute, and become a good doctor. We need doctors.”

He fell silent and glanced at Lazar. The lush mustache could not hide a smile.

“Well, and you, Lazar Moiseevich? What about you? Haven’t you also earned something good?”

Lazar smiled back. He was nervous. Only now did he realize how much power was already in this man’s hands.

“Yes, that wouldn’t be bad.”

“I think we should drink a toast to that.”

He took an unopened bottle of French cognac from a desk drawer, unscrewed the cap, and looked at Lazar.

“Or would you prefer vodka? But I know that Lazar Moiseevich does not drink vodka. In fact, Lazar Moiseevich does not drink at all. But I am sure Comrade Lazar would not want me to drink alone. Isn’t that true?”

He filled two small shot glasses and corked the bottle again.

“To your health!”

When they drank, Stalin opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out several sheets of paper. He handed them to Lazar.

“I think you’ve already seen these.”

They were Trotsky’s essays.

“I’m sure you know what is happening?”

Lazar nodded.

“Good,” Stalin said. “You know that until today, all Bolsheviks, including Lenin, have been able to hold onto the gains of the revolution thanks to the help of the proletariat of the developed capitalist countries of Western Europe. They consider it their duty to carry out revolution in their own countries. Trotsky has become the most vocal supporter of that course and my chief critic for my attitude toward the Comintern’s help in organizing unrest in Germany, Bulgaria, and China.”

He fell silent and looked at Lazar.

“If you wish, speak up.”

Lazar did.

“But you, Comrade Stalin, used to agree with Trotsky that the revolution itself has no end, that it is a permanent world struggle against capitalism.”

“That was before. Now I must do something. Your thoughts, Lazar Moiseevich?”

Lazar’s eyes widened. Everything was happening too fast. He was being tested, and he did not know if he was ready for the test. He said the first thing that came to mind. But he had no choice.

“You should reorient yourself, Comrade Stalin. We must brand Trotsky’s theory of ‘permanent revolution’ as the intrigues of Menshevism and disbelief in the strength and prospects of the Russian Revolution.”

“You are suggesting that I reject and forget Lenin’s theory of proletarian revolution?”

Lazar nodded again. Stalin fell into thought.

“So, I will create a new theory of revolution. Our Bolshevik regime can hold out without outside help. We possess everything necessary to build a firm socialist base by our own efforts, and only after building that base can we help the proletariat of other countries. How?”

He struck the table with his hand and sat down on the chair.

“I have often thought about it. Socialism in one country. Do you understand that?”

Lazar also sat down and said:

“The difference between your position and Trotsky’s is not about the ultimate victory of world socialism. It is rather a matter of time. You believe that the victory of socialism is possible first in Soviet Russia. Trotsky asserts the opposite. But, Comrade Stalin, it is you who controls the party organization. Therefore, your opinion should be decisive.”

The word “controls” cut Stalin’s ear. He straightened up in the chair. Lazar immediately did the same. Stalin looked intently at Lazar. Then, leaning back in the chair, he squeezed his pipe in his hands.

“Do you understand what you have said, Lazar Moiseevich?”

Lazar understood it perfectly.

“Do you understand what the consequences might be, Lazar Moiseevich?”

Yes, he knew exactly what would happen. He had made his choice completely. He only hoped that the choice was strategically correct. Stalin waited a moment, then smiled and reached for the telephone. Lazar did not catch what he said. When he finished, Stalin leaned back again. The door opened and Molotov entered. He brought a folder with papers. Stalin rose from the desk and took the folder.

“Comrade Molotov. Comrade Kaganovich.”

Lazar stood and shook Molotov’s small, smooth palm. Behind Molotov’s outward inaccessibility, Lazar saw a mischievous sparkle in his blue eyes. Lazar quickly recalled Molotov’s personal file:

“Molotov. Joined the Bolshevik Party in 1906. In 1918 – Chairman of the Council of People’s Economy of the Northern Region, one of Zinoviev’s closest collaborators. Since 1919 – representative of the Central Committee of the RCP(b) and the All-Russian Central Executive Committee in the Volga region. Since 1920 – candidate member, since 1921 – member of the Central Committee. Wife – the Jewish Polina Zhemchuzhina (real name Peri Semyonovna Karpovskaya).”

Stalin handed the papers to Lazar.

“Comrade Molotov, this is our new head of the Organizational-Distribution Department of the Central Committee.”

Lazar felt his head spin.

“And now, Lazar Moiseevich, let us discuss what you are to do.”

The next two hours were a test of patience. Stalin talked at length about the revolution, about people. Lazar listened attentively and tried to understand in his mind the reasons for Stalin’s success. Yes, Trotsky was a more powerful “brain trust,” but history had shown more than once that this, often, is not the main thing. Trotsky often turned out to be too clever, to his own detriment. Lazar did not like intellectuals, because he himself lacked education. He knew that after Lenin’s death, Stalin’s main enemies remained the Trotskyite intellectuals. If he helped Stalin, he could rid himself of them. Lazar wanted to become part of that process. He would make every effort to be in that kitchen. He was only thirty years old, and if he wanted live the next thirty years much better, he needed to tie himself to the “right” people and the winning side. There was nothing new in that. Everyone did it, he reasoned. Everyone. But he would do it better than the others. He would climb to the very top.

Stalin’s project was simple. He would purge the party of his opponents and fill its ranks with new members to strengthen his position against the “old guard.” According to Stalin’s instruction, Lazar was charged with creating a mechanism that would steer and control all types of party and government activity in the country, so as to keep everything under control. Ultimately, the Organizational-Distribution Department of the Central Committee could, by its authority, remove or transfer undesirable officials, which would be a prelude to a subsequent OGPU arrest, with which that department had close ties. Lazar understood that even an impressive service record, combined with the ability to work, enormous knowledge, and devotion to the party, did not free one from suspicion. He would go further. At that time he did not yet know how best to protect himself personally. One option seemed to him to be close to Stalin, and the opportunity for that would surely present itself. He would certainly use it. Stalin would appoint new people, and the head of the Organizational-Distribution Department, as the main source of information, would inevitably have to be at hand to help with the “right” choice.

In the six months that followed, Lazar met often with Stalin. Sometimes they were alone, discussing candidates. More often, Voroshilov and Ordzhonikidze, who had become a member of the Party Central Committee, were also in attendance. Voroshilov had become a prominent figure in the Kremlin, because he had taken the post of commander of the Moscow Military District, replacing Trotsky’s protégé Muralov. Mikoyan was also gaining more and more trust. At that time, Molotov and his wife Polina Zhemchuzhina were the closest to Lazar and Maria. They named their daughter Svetlana, just like Stalin’s and Nadezhda Alliluyeva’s daughter. Although wives and children saw each other often, since the circle of acquaintances was limited and the children attended a special closed school, the men communicated mostly at work.

Lazar knew what he had to do. He had to carry out Stalin’s assignments precisely. He felt that only selfless labor, without looking back at this man, could save him and advance him, and then time would tell. Besides himself, the only person with a responsible approach to work and an equally great capacity for work was Molotov. They both could work long hours. Their devotion was not questioned, and their intense labor would be appreciated as it deserved.

In March 1925, Lazar was summoned to Stalin’s office. This time they did not go over lists and did not discuss candidates. Stalin held out a report received from Kiev. The process of Ukrainization had reached a dead end, and the local party authorities had asked for Moscow’s help. Just two years earlier, the government had decided to introduce the Ukrainian language in the republic on an equal footing with Russian. This had compelled party officials to start learning Ukrainian. But things had stalled, and now Moscow’s intervention was required. Initially, the idea had been to involve Ukrainians themselves in the new organs of power. At the same time, they wanted to stamp out nationalism in the republic. Stalin ordered Lazar to go to Ukraine and sort out the situation.

• Your task consists of reorganizing the Ukrainian party and purging its ranks of unreliable elements. Sort out the state of affairs in the government bodies and rid them of negligent workers.
  Stalin chose Lazar for this mission for several reasons. First, Lazar was born and raised in Ukraine and spoke Ukrainian. Second, he knew how to handle the assignment. Third, his strong suit was that Lazar would deliver results, whatever it might cost him – or rather, whatever it might cost them. Lazar took Maria and Maya with him. They left their Moscow apartment, which had become cramped, and moved into a large and comfortable apartment at 17 Levamovskaya Street, in one of Kiev’s fashionable districts. Once again he had to return to his “homeland.” The only colleague he brought along was Khrushchev. He was to be at hand, making trips to small villages like Kabanov. Lazar had no desire to visit that filthy settlement ever again. It would only remind him of a past he had erased from his memory. Besides, Nikita also spoke Ukrainian, even if not quite correctly, and he would carry out whatever was needed as Lazar Kaganovich’s deputy. Apart from Khrushchev, he drew no one close to him. Lazar intended to work independently, constantly liaising with Moscow. If Stalin needed anything, he would certainly let Lazar know. Intermediaries were not needed in a matter like this. He would conduct himself so that his mentor (Stalin) stood before him and his protégé (Khrushchev) behind him. And in reality, both would be under his close scrutiny.
  Lazar was appointed First Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party (Bolsheviks) of Ukraine, with special instructions from Stalin on reorganizing the party. For Lazar, returning to Ukraine was accompanied by mixed emotions. The last time, he had been exiled there as a prisoner, against his will. Now it was completely different. Now he would arrive with a document in his hand confirming that he was the top man here, and everyone had to obey him.
  At that time, owing to the new government’s policies, an extremely tangled situation had developed in Ukraine. Nationalism had begun to flourish in every district, and no one wanted to voluntarily part with independence. Lazar believed he ought to support and advance the Jews. They had always stood behind the Communists. Moreover, in Ukraine more than half the students at educational institutions were again Jews. Yet Lazar once more carefully weighed the matter and came to the conclusion that the Jewish revolutionary Trotskyists, to whom Lenin himself owed a great deal, now showed none of their former zeal.
• To hell with them! – he yelled at Khrushchev. – They think I’m going to crawl on my knees and kiss their ass? They don’t learn Ukrainian, they speak only Yiddish. They resist! These a…holes — they resist! We are trying to make their life better, and what do they want? What are they after? Do they want to live in their own state? And in the meantime shit all over life in other states? I would very much like such a state to exist. I’d send them all there! A…holes!
  Caution was not a characteristic feature of Lazar’s working method. He did everything quickly and efficiently. He drafted agendas and formulated topics for discussion. He even steered debates so that all participants voted unanimously for what was required. The first necessity was to rid the local party apparatus of undesirable members. He had already prepared the corresponding list back in Moscow. His position on the Party Central Committee gave him an exceptional opportunity to manipulate people. He removed people and reshuffled them without prejudice. Those who, in his opinion, stood on party positions received good posts. Those whose nationalist feelings had not yet evaporated, if Lazar thought they could still be tamed, were transferred to lower ranks. And those who, in Lazar’s view, had no future were simply dismissed from their jobs. The main thing was to elevate his supporters and remove the dissenters.
  He forced everyone to reckon with his opinion. Vlas Yakovlevich Chubar, Chairman of the Council of People’s Commissars of Ukraine, and A. Shumsky, a member of the Central Committee of the Ukrainian Party, opposed him especially. He calmly listened to all their objections. Chubar and Shumsky appealed to Moscow. Shumsky even demanded that Stalin recall Kaganovich, but he received no support. Lazar’s arguments had a strong political basis.
• Comrade Stalin, I am dealing with prejudice. See for yourself. They criticize me because of my surname and nationality. I am merely carrying out your instructions, and they find my fault in who I am.
  Lazar knew exactly which levers to pull. When the opposition grew too loud, Lazar would start shouting: “Anti-Semitism!” Stalin at that time was not yet ready to raise the Jewish question. So he backed Ukraine’s first secretary.
  In less than a year, Lazar had subordinated the entire party secretariat of the Ukrainian Communist Party to himself and inculcated in them a manner of collectively resolving all problems. The same method of leadership was introduced in city and factory committees, at all levels of party and state power. With the indispensable Khrushchev’s help, Lazar completely rebuilt the entire system of governance in Ukraine. All that remained was to raise the economy and ensure a flow of money into the republic. But Lazar already knew about the plans for collectivization and was hatching plots on how best to carry it out. For the time being, however, on Stalin’s orders, he had to busy himself with industrialization. Under his leadership, the Dnieper Hydroelectric Power Station was built, and agriculture began to be supplied with heavy machinery. He placed those who supported him in administrative posts, thus creating a solid leading core. His aim was to unite Ukraine into “an indivisible bulwark for the future development of the ideas of Leninism.” In reality, he meant the further strengthening of Stalin’s position.

Returning to Moscow, Lazar threw himself headlong into new problems. The fierce struggle continued against the many-headed Trotskyist hydra, now in the form of the “Left Opposition” led by Trotsky—in other words, a battle against yet another Trotskyist putsch. In October 1926 Trotsky was removed from the Politburo of the Central Committee, and a year later from the Central Committee of the AUCP(B). On the tenth anniversary of the Revolution, November 7, 1927, Trotsky prepared an armed insurrection and tried to appeal to a column of demonstrators marching across Red Square. Once again, Trotsky had at his disposal well-trained groups of militants armed to the teeth. The main, so to speak, “popular” force in the demonstration were students of Moscow University and other capital institutions. However, at key points Trotsky’s fighters were met by Menzhinsky’s ambushes, and Trotsky himself was pelted with stones during the demonstration; a guard even fired a shot at his car, and Trotsky was forced to retreat. The students were isolated and prevented from causing disturbances; the mutiny fizzled out. It was the decisive battle, and Trotsky lost it.

Immediately afterward, on November 14, 1927, Trotsky was expelled from the party. Many Trotskyists were arrested. Stalin issued a statement: “It is no accident that the opposition is led by Jews. A real struggle is underway between Russian socialism and outsiders.” Lazar pricked up his ears. He knew Stalin did not like Jews, but had only touched on the subject in private conversations with trusted individuals. Now he said it openly. Lazar closely followed the course of the struggle against the Trotskyists. Trotsky and his family were exiled first to Alma-Ata, and in 1932 he was stripped of Soviet citizenship and expelled from the country. Lazar realized that he himself now had to show miracles of adaptability in order to survive under such conditions. As a Jew in Russia, after Trotsky’s defeat he found himself in a very shaky position, and as a Jew in the party elite his situation was even more precarious, because he was highly visible. With Trotsky gone, Lazar became the most prominent and influential Jew in the government, and he had no intention of giving up his positions. Lazar understood that he had to prove his loyalty.

In 1928, on Stalin’s orders, Kaganovich returned to Moscow. During the Eighth Trade Union Congress, Lazar was elected a member of the Presidium of the All-Union Central Council of Trade Unions. He owed this appointment to the role he had played in the downfall of Lenin’s widow, Nadezhda Konstantinovna Krupskaya.

At that time, Lazar, having become Secretary of the Central Committee and First Secretary of the Communist Party of Ukraine, gained the right to attend Central Committee meetings. He was surprised by the location chosen for these meetings. Previously, he had thought they were held in the Kremlin, in a hall not far from Stalin’s office. It seemed logical, and many citizens of the country thought the same. But it turned out that the meetings took place at 4 Staraya Square, not behind the Kremlin walls. Very few knew that the country was governed from a small room in an unremarkable building three blocks from Red Square. ‘Foolish people,’ thought Lazar. ‘They wander around the square opposite GUM, admire St. Basil’s Cathedral, and believe they are at the center of events. Fools stand in the middle of the cobblestone square, see cars moving through the Spassky Gate, and believe that the government works behind those mighty walls. Well, let them believe! No one needs to know that the government convenes in another, inconspicuous place. The longer no one knows where you are, the safer it is for you.’

That day, the meeting discussed the question of the country’s industrialization. Lazar always came to meetings early to secure a seat from which he could see Stalin well and Stalin could see him. The size of the room could accommodate about twelve to sixteen people. In line with Stalin’s tastes, it had very simple furnishings. A rectangular table stood in the center, surrounded by eight sturdy wooden chairs with straight backs that obliged those sitting to not relax. Six additional chairs stood separately along the wall. Stalin always kept two places for himself: one at the head of the table, the other against the wall, opposite the entrance door. Light entered the room through a single window, which was often curtained with drawn drapes. In the corner stood a small table with a carafe filled with water. Sheets of paper and pencils were spread out on the table, and two large metal ashtrays stood there. During the meeting, the room quickly filled with tobacco smoke from Stalin’s pipe and the cigarettes that Central Committee members lit one after another. Lazar had smoked only when he lived in Central Asia. It helped pass the time in a distant and boring part of the country. But cigarettes helped little, they rather irritated him; he had to frequently cough and clear his throat of the unpleasant tobacco smoke. Moreover, the tobacco smoke adversely affected his daughter Maya’s health: she developed an allergy, and all year round she suffered from watery eyes and a runny nose. Maria literally snatched cigarettes from Lazar, and to help him cope with irritation, replaced them with a prayer rope. But very often his anger reached such a level that the prayer rope would snap in his hands. His enormous palms became even larger because, having stopped smoking, he quickly began to put on weight. Now he weighed over a hundred kilograms and no longer fit into his brown tunic. ‘In that suit you look like a whale,’ Maya told him, seeing the brass buttons straining. Lazar had worn that tunic for several years, imitating Stalin’s tastes. Now he had to wear a suit and tie, like the other Central Committee members.

It turned out that apart from Lazar, only Krupskaya did not smoke. Krupskaya, like all of Lenin’s other women, was Jewish and an old Trotskyist, and had been placed with Lenin precisely for the purpose of exerting necessary influence on him. She always sat straight on her chair, interjecting remarks into every issue discussed. The most notable feature of her appearance was her dark, bulging eyes. She rarely smiled. A smile appeared on her lips only at moments when she spoke of things that Stalin and his supporters would not like. Krupskaya attended every Central Committee meeting because, as Lenin’s widow, she considered herself in a special position and constantly emphasized this fact. That day, as always, she defended her husband’s position, in particular regarding the NEP. No matter what was said, she had an opinion on everything, as if she still felt like a teacher before a group of unruly students.

Lazar carefully observed Stalin’s behavior. Stalin would “bristle” every time Krupskaya raised her voice, but he had to choose his words carefully and control himself. Stalin could not publicly accuse Lenin’s widow of anything. That would be considered blasphemy. The people would not understand. In fact, the people did not even know what was going on. But at 4 Staraya Square, Stalin had already charted his course. Lazar held all the secret information on party members’ personal files. Stalin would need his help in finding compromising facts against Krupskaya, and Lazar would provide that information without delay. And the main point was simple: Krupskaya was never formally Lenin’s wife, but merely, as they say, a cohabitant. The fact overlooked by all was that Lenin and Krupskaya had never had their marriage formalized or registered anywhere. Before the revolution, they did not stoop to that, and after the revolution, marriage was propagandized by the new authorities, that is, by them, as a relic of the destroyed system. Besides that, Lenin had other “party girlfriends.” Names of other women surfaced, including Elena Stasova. Later, in the 1960s, Elena Stasova’s funeral was conducted at the level of a General Secretary’s funeral, even though by that time she was simply a pensioner. This could only be interpreted to mean that she really had been Lenin’s cohabitant for some time. Besides that, the names of Inessa Armand and Rozalia Zemlyachka (Zalkind) emerged. Lazar, like Stalin, understood that these “assumptions” could not be openly supported. Therefore, the game should be played so that Krupskaya would fade into the shadows in exchange for the official status of “the leader’s widow.” It was important to divert suspicion from Stalin and take it upon oneself. Lazar was ready for this. Previously, he had hardly spoken at these meetings, studying the situation and carefully listening to who said what. And now the time to act had come.

The essence of Krupskaya’s speech was simple — she was trying to revive the political corpse of Trotsky, and again and again called on everyone to pay attention to “Lenin’s testament,” which was a forgery by Trotsky’s apparatus, and she knew that well. In other words, she demanded Stalin’s resignation and Trotsky’s return — this line would be the general line for all Trotskyists until it culminated in success as a result of Stalin’s death. Lazar carefully followed the verbal skirmish that went on for an hour. The Central Committee members’ opinions were divided: Kalinin and Rudzutak supported Krupskaya’s position, while Kirov and Ordzhonikidze considered the attacks on Stalin unfounded. Rumors had already reached Krupskaya “about her relations” with Lenin. She coldly looked at Stalin and demanded to know why he was personally persecuting her. Stalin clenched his pipe in his hand and stared at her. He said nothing. Some Central Committee members shifted nervously in their chairs. No one dared to speak openly. But they did not have to, because from the other corner of the room suddenly came a strong, confident, and authoritative voice. It was Lazar speaking.

‘Nadezhda Konstantinovna! Nadezhda Konstantinovna!’

She stopped mid-sentence and turned toward Lazar, startled and surprised that she had been interrupted. Silence fell over the room. Stalin walked over to a chair standing to the side, as if the matter did not concern him. Lazar waited until he was sure he had everyone’s attention. It required very little time. He had drawn attention the moment he spoke, but now the dramatic effect had to be heightened, so Lazar paused for a few more seconds. He carefully placed his prayer rope on the table before him.

‘Nadezhda Konstantinovna! You must be aware, I am sure, of the rumors about who you really are…’ Krupskaya tried to object, but Lazar quickly raised his huge palm, which in that small room looked like a shield.

‘You can, if you wish, comrade, inquire why these rumors arose, but that does not exhaust the matter. The question, Comrade Krupskaya, is that most of your arguments do not correspond to the interests of the new Soviet state. And I don’t have to tell you that my constituents, and they are very many, no longer wish to hear hysterical cries and attacks on those who are now entrusted with leading us to the great goal defined by our beloved founder.’

He stopped, took a breath, looked at the table, and tightly squeezed the prayer rope between his fingers. His voice became deeper, and what he said was barely audible.

‘Therefore, Comrade Krupskaya, if you persist like an old fart, we will appoint someone else to be Lenin’s widow.’

Lazar continued to finger the prayer rope in his hands. No one moved. A minute later, he quickly raised his head, searching for Stalin, who was looking at his pipe. Then he swept his gaze over those present. Everyone looked at Stalin, awaiting his reaction, some sign. Only Krupskaya did not take her eyes off Lazar. She could not believe the reality of what was happening. She knew well that Lazar had not finished.

She shifted her gaze to Stalin, who was staring straight at Lazar. Stalin’s reaction was obvious. He, too, was ready to hear Kaganovich’s proposal, as if for Stalin this was also all unexpected. Lazar continued speaking as if it were a matter of course. He knew perfectly well that Krupskaya put herself, her “I,” above everyone, including Lenin. Therefore, he, Kaganovich, was making a simple proposal. The Central Committee recognizes her as Lenin’s widow. He even proposed erecting a monument to her on Red Square for her services to the Soviet Union in the upbringing of children. In return, she must remain in the shadows, no longer appear at Central Committee party meetings, give no interviews, and abandon active politics.

‘And what if I refuse to accept your conditions or break them? What then?’ asked Krupskaya.

Lazar coldly looked at her, then quickly glanced at Stalin. Stalin was drilling him with his eyes. Lazar felt that he had just sung his swan song. He felt it with all his gut. He had to hit the high note!

‘Then, Comrade Krupskaya, nothing will remain of you but your monument.’

Krupskaya knew she had no document confirming her marriage to Lenin, but that did not frighten her, and she continued to press to the end. She was a Trotskyist by blood. However, her proposal to publish “Lenin’s testament,” a prepared move of theirs, was rejected by the Central Committee by thirty votes to ten (Who were those ten people?). And this was Lazar’s merit — in one minute, Lazar Kaganovich became one of the most important figures in the Soviet state.

From that time, Lazar became Krupskaya’s shadow. He monitored her every move and reported to Stalin what she did and said. He effectively became Stalin’s ears and eyes. He watched not only Krupskaya but also everyone Stalin doubted. If necessary, he could act immediately, always finding his leader’s support. Lazar was his bull terrier with great freedom to choose whom to bite.

Now that Krupskaya was neutralized, Lazar switched to what he must and wanted to do, knowing that Stalin would always back him. Lazar began dealing with industrialization issues, and, under the noise, with the Trotskyist plan of collectivization and rejection of the NEP policy. Lazar tried his best to please Stalin and, at the same time, to eliminate people personally objectionable to him, Lazar. To find a “scapegoat” responsible for mine accidents or the low standard of living of miners, Lazar began planning grandiose show trials in which wreckers from among former specialists were identified, confessing to sabotage. As a result of Lazar’s work, the flow of people shot by the OGPU and sent to camps sharply increased. Lazar also put his own people in command of the corrective labor camps.

In 1929, Trotsky was deported for counterrevolutionary activity. Any other person would have been shot on the spot for a millionth of what lay on Trotsky’s conscience. But at that time, Trotsky was still more than Stalin could handle. Abroad, Trotsky was backed by forces that even Stalin did not dare challenge. The OGPU decision on Trotsky was ready on January 20, 1929. Trotsky was deported to the Turkish island of Prinkipo, which Byzantine emperors had already used to exile their political opponents. Lazar understood perfectly well that this did not end Trotsky’s struggle with Stalin at all, but simply shifted it to another plane. It was an eternal struggle between the international mafia and the natural nationalism of each individual country—a struggle expressed at that time in the clash between Trotsky’s international principle of “permanent revolution” and Lenin’s and Stalin’s nationalist principle of building socialism in one, separate country. A few months after Trotsky’s exile, an economic collapse called the “Great Depression” would occur in the West. As with the “Great French Revolution,” nothing is labeled “Great” without reason. Supposedly a purely economic depression led to extraordinary political consequences: the concentration of power in the West in the hands of people who had once financed Trotsky. These same people, in that very year of 1929, began to finance Hitler in order to remove Stalin in Russia.

Lazar understood that his time had come to break through to the very pinnacle of power. He gained an opportunity to earn credit, making mortal enemies for himself along the way. But Lazar knew that the game was worth the candle, because someday, thanks to this, he would become a man no less important than Trotsky himself. And what of his idol Trotsky himself? — Lazar realized that Trotsky had made a mistake somewhere, and he could no longer help him. Lazar understood that he had to forget about Trotsky in order to preserve himself and thus become more useful to the common cause that he, like Trotsky, had served all his life.

In 1929, a partial communist revolution also took place in the West, a consequence of what came to be called the “Great Depression.” The revolution in the West was given that name so as not to alarm the citizens of capitalist states. Too much dreadful information was coming from the homeland of the first communist revolution — the USSR. Streams of blood flowed from behind closed doors. Therefore, revolutions in the West could no longer be carried out under their true name. At that time, two new bright stars appeared on the Soviet horizon. One of them was Stalin, who at the age of fifty became the undisputed leader of the Soviet Union. And the second star was Lazar Kaganovich, who at thirty-six, as First Secretary of Moscow and a member of the Politburo, had practically become one of the most important men in the country. And this happened only because Lazar did not miss the opportunity that presented itself to him—an opportunity that comes only once in a lifetime.

CHAPTER 4.

The Cheka was created by Trotsky on December 20, 1917, and quickly became a political punitive force, annihilating all opponents of the Soviet Republic’s ideology. The Cheka became the main “controlling” force in Russia. That was exactly what Trotsky sought. In 1922, Trotsky tried to soften the image of this fearsome organization by renaming it the Main Political Directorate (GPU), but its essence remained the same. Two years later it was called the OGPU and was entangling the entire Soviet Union in its networks. The OGPU abducted and killed anyone it pleased; it had long arms. In 1926, Symon Petliura was killed in Paris. They abducted the Estonian minister Ado Birk right in the center of Moscow, and in 1930, the White Guard leader Alexander Kutepov was taken in the center of Paris.

Lazar was well aware of the OGPU’s methods. His contacts with the “organs” dated back to the days when he was just starting out in personnel work. All the lists of people he prepared had copies that went directly to the head of the Cheka.

It was no secret to anyone that Kamenev–Zinoviev–Stalin were wresting their position from Trotsky in three areas: state security, the army, and the administrative apparatus. Lazar understood that at this moment he had to support Stalin. He had already proved his loyalty to a man who could dispose of his life. Lazar had shown that he could be trusted with more than just speaking out against Krupskaya. Nevertheless, he needed to find new ways to protect himself personally. He had not even taken a pseudonym, as many had prudently done, and it seems incredible that he remained who he had always been—Lazar Moiseevich Kaganovich, a Jew by origin. He had to cross over many things, and it was important to choose correctly how to do so. His next goal was to position himself so as to know everything that was happening, or even better, to know before others. This could only be achieved with the help of the OGPU, which kept its hand on the pulse of the entire country. The OGPU had become part of the nomenklatura—the top party bureaucracy. One of Lazar’s people was Genrikh (Herschel) Yagoda (Enoch Gershenovich Yehuda). Genrikh-Herschel Yagoda-Yaguda was the nephew of Yakov Sverdlov and was married to the granddaughter of Sverdlov’s father, and at one time had worked in Sverdlov’s engraving workshop, so he rose to high position without Lazar’s help. Yagoda was the deputy of Menzhinsky, who had ensured Stalin’s victory over Trotsky’s putsch on November 7, 1927. Therefore, for the Trotskyites there was no question that Menzhinsky had to be removed, and that was the task of Genrikh-Herschel Yagoda.

Lazar needed to know who surrounded him. He remembered well the words Stalin had said to him after the successful completion of the “reorganization” in Ukraine: “One enemy outweighs a hundred friends. For one man, two enemies who have united are already a regiment.” Lazar convinced Stalin of the necessity of creating an administrative group for special assignments, which received the unofficial name “wet work department.” Lazar was given an office on the fourth floor of building number 2 on Lubyanka. This was where the main headquarters of the OGPU, called the “Center,” was located. From the window of the “Center” there was a view of the whole square, so he could see who came through the main entrance. The only inconvenience was that the windows had thick bars, or blinds.

Most OGPU workers appeared at the six pass-points by seven in the morning. They came to work so early in order to have breakfast. On the eighth floor in the canteen a good breakfast was served, consisting of milk, eggs, pork, fruit, and all of it free of charge. The corridors in the building were painted a light green color. The floors were laid with parquet, which was regularly polished. Large white spherical lamps hung everywhere, pouring out a soft light. The spacious offices were half-empty. They were painted the same light green. In the offices stood only a writing desk and a few hard chairs with straight backs. Each office contained an iron safe, sealed at the end of the working day. Along the corridors, internal troops officers served guard, wearing the usual white uniform, only with blue insignia instead of red. These blue insignia enjoyed particular respect. A visit to Lubyanka in 1981 revealed that little had changed over the years. The walls were still painted light green, the same furniture stood in the offices, only the safes had disappeared, and documents were put away at night in a single, central safe. Apparently the KGB did not have much work. By then order in the country was maintained more by the authority of the institution than by intensive work.

Lazar’s office stood out from the others. It contained a massive oak desk and three armchairs. Separately, there was a long conference table, where meetings were held. On one wall hung a portrait of Dzerzhinsky, and on the other, a portrait of Stalin. A mountain of telephones rose on the desk. Two were especially important: the phone on the right had a direct line to Stalin, and the one on the left, the so-called “vertushka,” connected him to members of the Central Committee. The remaining phones allowed him to reach important sites scattered across the vast territory of the Soviet Union. One phone could dial Khrushchev directly, who was then working in Yuzovka. At that time, Khrushchev was doing everything possible to make Lazar’s life easier. Whenever he had the chance to speak in public, Khrushchev would invariably praise his Kaganovich, especially his instructions “which we receive for our daily work.” For example: “Lazar Moiseevich’s brilliant proposal to plow up untouched lands in order to grow bread for Moscow is a direct guide to action!” Lazar knew that his “protégé” with the somewhat simple-minded look was in fact not simple at all. In Ukraine, Khrushchev had even earned the nickname “shabesgoi” because he lit candles on Saturdays according to Jewish traditions and also obligingly gazed into the eyes of other high-ranking Jewish leaders. Nikita was very diligent. In his zeal, Khrushchev was, as they say, more orthodox than the rabbi himself. Now Lazar would toss him a bone that he clearly would not refuse:

• Nikita Sergeyevich, I am offering you the post of deputy head of the Organizational Department of the Central Committee of the Communist Party (Bolsheviks) of Ukraine.
  Khrushchev was to be tasked with increasing the percentage of working-class representatives in the party apparatus, which was dominated by members of the Jewish intelligentsia—that is, Trotskyites.
  Silence fell on the other end of the line, which surprised Lazar. Finally, Khrushchev’s voice came through:
• I am very grateful, Comrade Kaganovich, for the trust you have shown me. Where should I go?
• To Kharkov.
  Silence again. Lazar understood the problem. Kharkov’s workers were known for their unpredictability and unreliability. Khrushchev knew that too.
• Again, Comrade Kaganovich, I thank you and I think you are right in deciding to bring more workers’ representatives into the Central Committee apparatus. (In reality, it was Stalin who had decided this.) But I would not like to leave Yuzovka. I feel at home here. I’ve grown accustomed to my work and I know the people well. Besides, I don’t know how matters stand in Kharkov, and I’m not sure I can get used to working in the organizational department.
  Lazar listened to this short, stout village daredevil. He had blurted it all out in one breath and was now breathing heavily. It was the first time Khrushchev had dared not to obey his, Kaganovich’s, order! Now Lazar would show him how to put an insolent “favorite” in his place. He sighed loudly so that it could be heard on the other end of the line and began to speak in a quiet voice, as if sharing some secret.
• Well, all right. If that is what you think, then I suppose the Central Committee can manage without you. In that case, there is no need to transfer you from Yuzovka, if you are against it.
  Lazar paused for effect. He did not have to wait long at all.
• Kharkov?
• Kharkov.
• Yes, Kharkov.
  Lazar smiled as he placed the receiver back on the hook. He already knew how to give orders, what means to use in order to get his way. If you want to survive, he believed, you must make people obey.
  His second telephone call that morning was to Nizhny Novgorod, to his brother Mikhail. Lazar conveyed pleasant news: Mikhail had been elected to the Presidium. Actually, the final vote count was not yet complete, but that did not matter. After all, whoever controls the process of counting the voters’ ballots also determines the outcome of the vote. This axiom applies in all countries, regardless of whether they are totalitarian or “democratic.” Mikhail’s voice sounded joyful, but Lazar detected a hidden tension in it. Probably echoes of resentment: Mikhail was aware that his younger brother, Lazar, had surpassed him in position. Lazar knew that Mikhail underestimated him, and that many people would now also envy his achievements. Lazar was angered by the indifference of others.
  He had also taken care of his brother Yuri, who was appointed First Secretary in Nizhny Novgorod. But Lazar realized that Yuri was not capable of more. Yuri did not push himself anywhere. He kept in the shadows, working in the sprawling party apparatus; he did what he was told and showed no initiative. He devoted all his energy to his wife and children. They were his life, his country, his party.
  Lazar’s own family life had taken a sharp turn. Maria and Maya were inseparable. Lazar hardly saw them at all. It seemed he spent all his time at work. No matter where he was, or how much he traveled, he always had at his disposal a desk, an armchair, and a battery of telephones.
  His younger sister Rosa quietly moved to the capital. Her dream had become reality. Now she worked in building No. 8, constructed in 1780 by the architect Quarenghi. This building had once belonged to the Sheremetyevs, and now it housed a privileged hospital for high-ranking party officials. She would not have minded working in an ordinary hospital, but in that case Lazar would not have been able to keep her under control. So he secured an enviable position for his sister. Yet she, too, rarely had the chance to see her brother. He had become, in general, inaccessible to very many people.
  Lazar had no time for socializing with people, except when he needed to extract some benefit for himself. He often saw Bulganin, occasionally Voroshilov, but everyone else was only a random visitor. His chief concern remained Stalin (even more so than his wife Maria), and he spoke with him by phone at least six times a day and met with him at least twice. With a few rare exceptions, Lazar treated everyone with a sense of great superiority. His conversations were reduced to issuing orders. If anyone, other than Stalin, asked him about something, the answer was always the same, learned from his work in the OGPU: “We receive information, we do not give it.”
  Moscow had become a reliable stronghold of Bolshevism in the country, and Lazar Kaganovich was one of the most important Bolsheviks in the capital. His power had grown to such a degree that if he omitted the form of address “comrade” in conversation, it was perceived as a sign of disfavor. If some worker disappeared for several days for no apparent reason, others began to guess what had happened: the OGPU had arrested him. There could be no doubt about that. Of course, the worker might have been sent somewhere on a secret assignment, but few believed such legends. It was clear that Kaganovich had been given a sword with which to keep Moscow obedient. Stalin appreciated his abilities in suppressing Ukrainian nationalism and in the situations with Krupskaya and Khrushchev. But something had to be done about the Jews. It was no secret that the Soviet republic had historically become the first Jewish fortress in the whole world. Abroad, it was even called a “Jewish republic.” Israel had not yet even been thought of, and Trotsky’s Dictatorship in Russia was intended for the armed spread of Jewish dictatorship worldwide under the guise of a “proletarian” world revolution. However, Trotsky’s unforeseen ousting by Stalin scrambled all the cards for the world Jewish “Octopus.” And Stalin had no intention of limiting himself to pushing out Trotsky alone. Stalin encroached on Jewish power itself in the country. Yet he understood that he must do this only very gradually, and even by enlisting the Jews themselves for this purpose. One of these “own” Jews was destined to be Lazar Kaganovich, who had earned this right through his horse-like work capacity and by demonstrating absolute reliability. First, the removal of Jews from leadership positions began. All this proceeded under the banner of increasing workers’ representation in the party. Before that, the party had been synonymous with the Jewish elite; Stalin now began to dilute the Jewish party elite with workers. No one could object to that—formally the party was masked as a workers’ party.
  Lazar did not have great Jewish support when he worked in Kiev, and he knew that Stalin did not care for Jews. Sometimes he wondered why Stalin, knowing perfectly well his nationality, supported and advanced Lazar. But he was afraid to ask the direct question. Instead, he asked Bulganin, and the explanation he received sounded quite logical: “He needs you. It’s very simple. You do what you’re told, and you do it well. As long as you haven’t gotten in his way and haven’t disappointed him, he will need you. Simple, isn’t it?”
  Maria had a different opinion: “Lord, what are you doing!” It was one of those rare moments when she voiced her perspective to him. Most of the time, she kept everything inside. Even after marrying him, she never fully opened up to him. He could be unpredictable. His unbalanced nature was no secret to anyone. Although he tried to control himself, Maria often witnessed his irrepressible rage and saw the prayer beads flying from his hands in all directions. Usually once a month she had to replace the torn beads with new ones. But when she learned that Lazar had removed from his post Trashunov, a well-known editor of a Kiev newspaper and a devoted communist, and had done so only because the man had not obeyed him, Lazar, despite Trashunov being a Jew, her patience came to an end.
• Do you really have no compassion at all for your own people? After all, he is one of your own, not Stalin!
• I do what I have to do. Mark that well, before it’s too late. My god is Stalin! Do you hear me? Do you hear me well?
  And again the prayer beads snapped in his hands.
  What choice did he have? Only Stalin knew who stood behind him. And he had to please Stalin, and no one else. Not even himself personally. If only the Jews could understand! If only they could understand that for the time being they had to halt their attacks! He looked in the mirror: his face had become fuller, his mustache neatly smoothed, his new suit fit him well, his shirt was cleanly washed and pressed. Yes, he liked living in warmth and comfort. Could he sacrifice all of this? And yet once he had condemned his father for the desire to live better. Was he himself such a hypocrite? The impossibility of parting with a leadership position? Had he not just condemned a man by the name of Moiseev for the very same thing? But he immediately pushed such a question aside. No, now it was a different time, a different place, a different world. Now one must be extremely circumspect. He himself must learn from his own Jewish people. First, Lazar had to survive. His father had always reminded him of that: “First you must survive, and then everything else.”
  He scanned the room to make sure he was alone and no one would hear him. Maria was in the kitchen. “I must be very careful,” Lazar whispered quietly to himself. “The slightest slip and I’m done for. People live in constant fear that someone will denounce them. Life like this is far worse than under tsarism. Everyone is afraid of each other. Everyone tries by any means to protect himself.” And he recalled a joke then going around that captured the essence of what was happening: A Soviet citizen came home, locked the door with three locks, undressed completely, and examined himself in the mirror, and after a few minutes he said instructively to his reflection: “No doubt about it. One of us is definitely a provocateur.”
  In Moscow, compared to the twenties, there were clear changes, a thaw. Satire and humor appeared from somewhere, jokes. Even the newspaper Pravda relaxed its iron tone. One notice began: “Across the malachite fields, the river Kripan unfurls its silvery ribbon. Behind the fields, like a bronze wall, stands a century-old pine forest. In the gaps among the pines, here and there, dachas appear like fairy-tale houses.” Then followed an attack on corrupt bureaucrats and negligent workers.
  Lazar also noticed new efforts to restore nationalist pride in the USSR.
  It seemed as if a huge broom was sweeping the nooks and crannies of the immense country, clearing away all reminders of yesterday. The innovations even touched the language. In pharmacies, instead of “English salts” for constipation, they now sold “bitter salts”; bakeries baked “city bread” instead of “French rolls.” Foreignness was being removed even from names. Everything that was foreign lay abroad, beyond the borders.
  Lazar, too, was proud of the achievements, but in his own way. For him, it was important to demonstrate his loyalty to Stalin. In private life, Lazar had already begun to exalt Stalin and diminish Lenin. If he had to propose a toast in a select circle, he would say:
• Comrades, the time has come to tell people the truth. Everyone continues to speak of Lenin’s merits, but we must be honest with one another. Lenin is dead. Now we must change the slogan. Long live Leninism? No! Long live Stalinism!

By 1930, the entire capitalist world was plunged into the “Great Depression.” In reality, this was a partial “communist” revolution in the West. At this critical moment, Stalin realized that not a minute could be lost, and instead decided to rebuild the industry that had been completely destroyed by Trotsky, who relied on the West in everything. Stalin understood that the West would sooner or later start aggression against the USSR and against him personally, this Stalin who had appeared out of nowhere and confused all their plans. The first five-year plan provided for the industrialization of the Soviet Union. “Fulfill and overfulfill!” became the slogan of that time. Records began to be set not only in sports but also in industry. The very concept of physical culture and sports, and workers’ health, emerged. Before that, the health of Soviet citizens was of minimal interest to the “workers’ and peasants’” state. It was necessary to triple the production of ore, steel, coal, and oil. Under Trotsky, all the mineral resources of the USSR were given as concessions to foreign capital. For example, the American company “Standard Oil of New Jersey,” now the company “Exxon,” continued to own oil fields in Baku until 1946. And although the revolution had been carried out in 1917, nationalization applied only to domestic producers, and even then only so that Trotsky’s state could immediately hand over all industry to foreign concessions. Trotsky gave away only the tsarist gold faster. He gave the tsarist gold to those sharks from Wall Street who had financed his revolution. The so-called Anglo-American intervention pursued only the goal of ensuring the security of transporting the gold to the West. Trotsky himself personally headed the Main Concession Committee. The nationalization of foreign enterprises, however, began only during Stalin’s industrialization, in 1929.

Furthermore, the task was set to triple the production of consumer goods, which had hardly been produced at all before. And all this had to be accomplished in the shortest possible time. No time was allotted for it at all. Electricity production had to be increased at least sixfold. The West was absolutely not enthusiastic about the USSR’s industrialization plan. For ten years their protégés had been destroying and ruining Russia, only for it to start reviving again? Foreign agents in Russia were given the task of preventing industrialization in the USSR at any cost. And again a fierce intra-party fight broke out, “industrial” show trials led masses of people to their doom. The struggle was to the death, and few could figure out who was for whom. But the fantastic task of industrialization was accomplished despite everything, and this showed that if you want something, you can do anything. In 1921, the total annual production of the USSR was estimated at two billion rubles. Just 9 years later, in 1930, production in the USSR reached 30 billion rubles.

In agriculture, however, the picture was the opposite — there the Trotskyists reigned, along with sabotage and wrecking. Having suffered defeat on the political and industrial front, the Trotskyists launched a frontal assault in agriculture. Russia was primarily an agrarian country. Over 80% of the population were peasants who, thanks to the reforms of Prime Minister Stolypin, worked on their own land. The disguised Trotskyists managed to convince Stalin that only by turning agriculture into an industrial sector and wholly subordinating it to the bureaucratic apparatus — that is, to themselves — could the country be provided with grain. They said they would take everything upon themselves. In reality, under the guise of fulfilling the state objective of “collectivization” and eliminating only the “kulaks” as a class, they set about the wholesale destruction of the peasantry. They plotted the utter annihilation of the peasantry. They planned a famine. Everything happened as they intended. With the onset of “collectivization,” a total famine began in the country, something not seen since the civil war and Trotsky’s dictatorship of “War Communism.” The Trotskyists counted heavily on using this famine to stir discontent among the people and remove Stalin. That was precisely the result the Trotskyists sought. Lazar Kaganovich understood that his finest hour had come, when, without exposing himself to danger, he could carry out his sacred mission.

Lazar assumed the leading role in conducting the so-called “collectivization” operation and in the harsh “dekulakization” of the peasantry and the forced formation of collective farms in the countryside, which effectively became rural concentration camps. Lazar was simultaneously the brain and the hands of collectivization. He was dispatched to the most difficult regions of the country to impose iron discipline, but whereas in earlier times he had primarily dealt with reports from the field, he was now vested with full authority. Thanks to his success in Ukraine in 1925, Lazar enjoyed complete autonomy. He knew that Stalin was interested in results, and results were being prepared for him. Therefore, he relished using the power granted him against the so-called “wealthy,” who were actually hardworking peasants whom he envied and had hated since his childhood in Kabany. It gave him enormous pleasure to simultaneously exile sixteen large Cossack stanitsas to the North. He dealt ruthlessly with the defiant. Without any pangs of conscience, Lazar resolutely signed orders that sent hundreds of thousands and millions of people — men, women, the elderly, and children — to their deaths. In the country’s breadbasket, Ukraine, by the most conservative estimates, no fewer than 7 million people starved to death in just the 1932–1933 year alone, but the Holodomor was also orchestrated in other regions of the country. The scale of human destruction reached unprecedented levels.

Lazar developed the rationale for “collectivization,” claiming that the industrialization of the country could not succeed if the peasantry, which made up 80 percent of the population, remained on the sidelines. In reality, Lazar was pursuing his own line, known only to him, to which he remained faithful all his life and which had long been revealed to him by his Uncle Lyovik. He enjoyed his role in the ongoing events of the USSR. His speeches increasingly appeared in Pravda, then in some Polish newspaper, even in a Parisian one, and finally in the American newspaper The New York Times. This pleasantly tickled his nerves, and perhaps for the first time in his life he realized how high fate had lifted him. It also made him recall Uncle Lyovik and Morris and other residents of Kabany scattered across the world. What did Uncle Lyovik think when he read about his nephew in the paper? Most likely, he swelled with pride. Generally, Lazar did not care about others’ opinions; he merely thought once more about his father, who was no more. The following year, that same newspaper The New York Times described Lazar Kaganovich as “the man closest to Stalin,” while at the same time extolling Lazar in every way, which in itself is quite noteworthy. The New York Times does not praise just anyone. The New York Times is a mouthpiece of pseudo-intellectual Zionism, called left-wing, as well as right-wing liberalism. The main thing is that the true name is never uttered. Lazar realized that he had risen almost to Trotsky’s level.

But despite the lofty and laudatory rhetoric, blood, as in Trotskyist times, again began to seep from behind closed doors. Lazar needed to hedge his bets in time. He knew that Stalin would not forgive him mistakes and oversights. But Lazar could not acknowledge any mistakes on his part. He had to prove once again that everything he did was for the good of and in the name of Stalin. He had to continue reinforcing faith in the correctness of the measures being taken to reorganize agriculture. As his replacement in Ukraine, Lazar entrusted the implementation of active “collectivization” measures to Mendel Markovich Khataevich, whom he knew as a reliable man from their joint work in Gomel in 1917. Khrushchev, who was himself a Ukrainian, could not be trusted with such a task. Lazar appointed Khataevich second secretary of the Communist Party of Ukraine and made him responsible for carrying out collectivization. It was Lazar who supplied Khataevich with central OGPU troops and the army, which were deployed to Ukraine, the Kuban, and the Volga region specifically to ensure the strictest isolation of the condemned areas, the confiscation of foodstuffs from the population, and the dispatch of peasants to northern camps for annihilation. Not a mouse was to slip out of the doomed localities. It was an operation of gigantic scale, unparalleled in history — to starve and evict a population from a territory larger than Europe. Lazar knew that Khataevich would not let him down. For the success of the entire operation, Lazar also replaced the head of the Agriculture Department of the Central Committee of the CPSU(b), the Russian Nikolai Alexandrovich Uglanov, an opponent of collectivization, with his man Karl Yanovich Bauman. However, Bauman so “overdid it” and was so zealous in destroying people that he had to be replaced by Molotov. Rumors spread that collectivization had stalled. In Ukraine, a famine unprecedented in the history of Russia, let alone Ukraine, broke out. The corpses of adults and children lay in the streets of Ukraine, the Volga region, and the Kuban. The situation heated up. There was a danger that Stalin might learn the whole truth, and then Lazar would be finished. Lazar decided to blame everything on local excesses. On March 15, 1930, the newspaper Pravda published Stalin’s famous article “Dizzy with Success,” which temporarily saved the lives of millions of peasants. After this article, the Trotskyists had to regroup. To finish the job and cover up the traces of crimes, Lazar proposed to Stalin that he go and personally sort out the situation on the ground. Again recalling Lazar’s previously successful mission to Ukraine, Stalin replaced Molotov with Kaganovich.

To buy time, Lazar intended first to visit Krasnodar Krai, where the situation was not so catastrophic. He planned to spend a few days there, ostensibly to inspect the work of local Party organizations, but in reality to soak up the southern sun and swim in the Sea of Azov. Lazar wanted to give the “organs” a chance to finish carrying out the orders they had been given earlier. But he never made it south of Donetsk. He had to decisively suppress a rebellion of Kuban Cossacks who refused to work the land taken from them. Lazar’s reaction was typical:

• If they do not wish to submit, all Cossack settlements will be exiled north in their entirety, to be destroyed. Either they do what they are ordered here in Ukraine, or let them freeze their balls off thousands of kilometers from their native places. The Ukrainian people quickly felt the ruthless methods of Lazar’s “work,” a combination of unwarranted cruelty and merciless persecution. His method of “working” with people became legendary. He would usually sit at a table, lay one pistol to his right and another to his left, and people knew he would use both without hesitation. He inspired animal terror in both workers and peasants. His “method” was first perfected on the inhabitants of Ivanovo-Voznesensk. Because of an artificially created famine, the people declared a strike. Lazar acted brutally but effectively. First, he confiscated the Party cards of the regional committee members and declared that if things didn’t get moving within three days, they would all be expelled from the Party ranks, fired from their jobs, and arrested. His next move was even more refined. He put the most “loudmouthed” strikers into the same prison cell with those Russian Communists who had supposedly created the food shortages artificially. Lazar relished the thought of the father of a child dead from starvation and the guilty Communist being shut up together. The outcome of such a meeting was beyond doubt. Lazar’s “method” consisted precisely in sacrificing not his own Trotskyites, but Stalinist, Russian promotees—as, for instance, happened with Uglanov. Thanks to his long experience in personnel work, Lazar knew exactly who played for which team and struck without missing. In this way, Lazar not only successfully organized the famine of the whole country and the destruction of the peasantry “as a class,” but also the mass shooting of purely Russian promotees—men he himself had promoted while increasing the influx of workers into the Party—who were accused of excesses and deliberately set up. Lazar was becoming a worthy successor to Trotsky. However, the trick was that formally he was supposed to be the most active fighter against Trotskyism.

After collectivization was completed in Ukraine and the “kulaks” had been successfully dealt with, it was the turn of other regions of the Soviet Union, including Moscow Oblast. Lazar mobilized more than 2,000 Communists for collectivization in Moscow Oblast alone.
But the more he did, the more work piled up. Stalin even tasked him with keeping an eye on his wife, Nadezhda Alliluyeva. There was talk that something was seriously wrong with her, and she had even attempted to take her own life. Lazar did not know how true that was. He only realized that living with a man like Stalin was difficult, though no more so than Maria had found living with Lazar himself, and Stalin had never once raised a hand to his wife. Maria told him stories she had heard from Polina Zhemchuzhina, who was the very source spreading rumors that Stalin had supposedly locked his wife in a room for days on end and not even allowed her to see the children. But no one actually knew what was really happening. Stalin did not like to let people into his private life. Lazar easily handled the assignment. Alliluyeva gave him no trouble, and his reports to Stalin turned out to be very meager. Lazar took no pleasure in work unless he knew that he would eventually come out on top. But Nadezhda Alliluyeva simplified his task: a month later, she killed herself. That morning he received two pieces of news within ten minutes of each other. The first said she had shot herself, the second—that she had poisoned herself. When Lazar arrived at the Kremlin, Molotov was already there. Stalin was sitting in an armchair, smoking a cigarette instead of his pipe. To an outsider, he might have appeared perfectly calm, but Molotov and Kaganovich knew that chaos reigned inside his head. Only when Voroshilov entered did Stalin begin to speak. Lazar had the impression that in Vyacheslav Molotov’s presence, he had not uttered a word.
“There is talk that she disagreed with my policy—or should I say, our policy? I assume, and you will agree, that we should pay no attention to all this nonsense.”
Lazar glanced at Molotov, then at Voroshilov. They all knew well that Nadezhda had been obsessed with the idea of the “wrongness,” as she called it, of what her husband and his circle were doing. She was so consumed by this thought that she did not even pay attention to her small children: six-year-old Svetlana and two-year-old Vasily.
“She didn’t understand, Comrade Stalin,” Molotov said in the most sympathetic voice he could muster.
Lazar nodded.
“People don’t understand what’s good for them,” added Voroshilov.
Stalin looked intently at the three men standing before him. For him, this was a very unpleasant situation.
“We must organize the funeral,” he said, lighting one cigarette from another.
“Perhaps Novodevichy Cemetery?” Molotov suggested almost in a whisper.
Lazar thought at the time that it would be a good solution. The cemetery lay beside the ancient Novodevichy Monastery. The place was beautiful and had no political overtones.
“And I want it done quickly and privately,” Stalin added.
There were many rumors. The government even tried to frame the story so that death came from peritonitis following an unsuccessful operation to remove an appendix. But that interpretation gained no traction. Some spread rumors that Stalin himself had killed her. But that version clearly reeked of an effort to smear Stalin at all costs. The narrative of suicide remained on the surface. Lazar decided to let people think whatever they liked. Both versions played into his hands personally. If the people wanted to believe that Stalin had killed his wife, let them believe it. On the other hand, whether Nadezhda shot herself, having no more strength to live with her husband, or whether Stalin helped her, did not matter. In either case, Stalin looked like a tyrant. Now, with Nadezhda no longer around, Lazar set about isolating Stalin completely and, at the same time, making himself more secure. He surrounded the leader with a ring of guards, in order to create in him a constant sense of alarm and danger. This tactic worked. Just a week after the funeral, Stalin suffered an attack of angina. The attack turned out not to be dangerous. But Lazar quickly took action, and to cement his own position, he turned to Rosa for help.

Roza was thirty-seven at the time. She worked a great deal at the clinic, saw almost no one except for daily lunches at her brother’s house. She had become almost a recluse. Her exceptional beauty and education did not draw people to her: both men and women, out of fear, tried to stay away from the sister of the “all-powerful Lazar Moiseevich.” Her present situation brought her no joy, though she realized that she owed her position entirely to her older brother. She imagined with dread what would have become of her had she stayed in Kabany. After all, she could have died on the road, just like their mother. No, she was deeply indebted to Lazar, and when he called for her, she hurried to the meeting without a moment’s hesitation.

They met in Lazar’s office at the Lubyanka. He usually preferred to speak with people here, especially when he wanted to gain something for himself personally. It looked official and more intimidating for the person sitting on the other side of the desk. Roza had become a real beauty. Though of medium height, unlike most of the women around high-ranking officials whose figures, in Lazar’s words, “resembled a volleyball with legs,” Roza had a slender waist, shapely legs, and “all the rest was in place,” as Lazar admiringly told Maria. She judged people by the same principle as her brother: how useful they could be to her personally. She had always studied well and easily remembered everything Lazar said. And she understood and felt close to the words of Uncle Lyovik: “What is good for the Jews is good.”

“He needs you more than ever,” Lazar began.

He didn’t need to explain who “he” was. Roza was in the receiving ward when they had brought Stalin in with an attack of angina. She had already heard the rumors flying around the hospital and knew that Stalin had had no luck with women in his life. His first wife, Katerina, died of tuberculosis, and the second had now departed life under tragic circumstances after fifteen years of marriage. It was whispered that Stalin needed a passionate woman, but only on a “half-time basis,” because he worked a great deal and preferred male company.

She fixed her eyes on her brother’s.

“What exactly does he need?”

“He needs. In every sense of the word.”

Lazar saw what was happening in the Kremlin. Stalin was deeply grieving the loss of his wife, and Lazar wanted to seize the opportunity.

“First of all, he needs a doctor he can trust. He knows you. He allowed you to work in the Kremlin hospital, and he trusts me. So he will trust you and your medical expertise.”

Roza nodded in understanding.

“I agree,” she said.

She had no choice. To become the personal physician to the Soviet leader meant knowing how to listen and encourage. She could manage that.

“Secondly,” Lazar bent a finger, “he needs a normal family life. The children are small—Svetlana is only six—and they need upbringing. We must arrange his family life for him.”

Roza nodded again. And Lazar could see in her expression the very same determination that had been on their mother’s face many, many years ago, when their mama Sasha came home from work in the evening only to find that Papa Moisey had nothing for supper. Mama Sasha would clench her jaw tightly, shake her head as if assenting to the inevitable, and then go out to barter something for supper.

“Finally, you must always be at hand, but not to argue with him. Not so he’d have someone to ‘take it out on,’ but so that when he comes home he can count on a breath of fresh air. And that is very important.”

Roza listened very attentively. She would do exactly what was asked of her, and in the best possible way. Lazar knew her well. And right now he badly needed her help. Such a golden opportunity would not come again. Fortune was walking right into Lazar’s hands. Roza seemed to have been waiting and living specifically for the role assigned to her.

She did even more than Lazar expected. Stalin’s dacha at Kuntsevo was renovated from scratch. She insisted on replacing the furniture, had the dacha painted in brighter colors, and began to socialize a little. Twice a week she received guests from Nizhny Novgorod there, most often Elena Bulganina, also a doctor and a Jew by nationality. Roza proved to be an excellent hostess at table, and at that point in his life Stalin found himself at the Kuntsevo dacha surrounded by his “most loyal” comrades: Molotov, Bulganin, Mikoyan, Voroshilov, and, of course, Kaganovich.

But Lazar did not stop there. Striving to isolate Stalin entirely and to bend him to his will, he ordered the construction of several small houses around the dacha, in which he settled fifty of his own men to “guard” the leader. Who was guarding whom and from whom was no longer entirely clear. Machine guns were mounted on turrets. Enormous East European shepherd dogs were let loose round the clock. Along the road from the Kremlin to the dacha, they even installed a special alarm system. Thanks to this system, the security organs always knew the progress of Stalin’s car with his guards. Thus, without much trouble, Lazar knew Stalin’s every move. No, Roza did everything that was required of her, and even more.

The seeds sown by Lazar quickly began to bear fruit. Stalin grew stronger after his bout of angina, and the idea was increasingly impressed upon him that not only friends but also like-minded comrades had gathered around him. Lazar often reported to him that, against the backdrop of major achievements in fulfilling the First Five-Year Plan, small opposition groups had emerged within the party. He suggested keeping a close watch on these groups to prevent them from merging into a single large anti-Stalin coalition. Certain members of the Politburo began to raise questions about Stalin’s competence and about what had really happened to Nadezhda Alliluyeva. The right people deliberately stirred up these questions. Lazar realized that his own position, too, could be shaken. But Stalin remained calm and confident. He swore to fight his enemies. Rosa immediately reported this to Lazar. Lazar understood that lying low would not be possible. Stalin sensed the danger, although for a certain time he took no decisive action. Lazar began with “soft” measures: eight hundred thousand people with a “tarnished” past were expelled from the party ranks, but no one was arrested. This merely served as a warning to the Trotskyist opposition. Yet Lazar realized with bitterness that they were “rabid” and could not help but push their luck, so these measures would not be enough. He knew very well about the existence of numerous so-called “disillusioned” supporters of the leader. Therefore, it became necessary to move toward more determined measures. Procrastination was no longer possible.

In 1934, Lazar finally succeeded in replacing V. R. Menzhinsky, who had been dispatched to the next world, with Yagoda, and at the same time, just as Trotsky had done in his day, he changed the name of his stained punitive organ—now to the NKVD. Lazar liked Herschel Yagoda. Unlike Menzhinsky, he was one of his own. His only shortcoming was that he was too eager to show excessive courtesy, going out of his way to carry out every assignment of Stalin’s. Lazar only feared that in this respect Yagoda might outdo Lazar himself. Yet Yagoda had difficulty keeping up with Stalin’s constant changes of mood, something that had initially been hard for Lazar as well. In fact, everyone had that difficulty. Still, Yagoda was a tough nut to crack; if Stalin had told him that the defense minister had “screwed” a sheep, Herschel would have accepted it as the Pentateuch.

Stalin saw that the Trotskyists, with unceasing help from abroad, were not abandoning and would never abandon their attempts to eliminate him. The Trotskyists were especially active in their “cradle of the revolution,” in Leningrad, which, as the former capital, historically had indeed been their chief cradle.

However, in Leningrad, where Trotskyist “opposition” had flourished under Zinoviev, the iron hand of rule belonged to a genuine, not merely a show, Stalinist—the Russian Sergei Kirov. Kirov was a member of the Politburo, and he simply crushed Trotskyists without waiting for approval from above. Kirov was such a charismatic personality that, with his personal charm, handsome appearance and brilliant eloquence, he actually outshone even Lenin. Naturally, he had to be removed first. With Yagoda’s arrival in the “organs,” this proved possible to arrange. In 1934, Kirov was shot by a certain Nikolaev. Nikolaev himself was promptly eliminated, and it became completely impossible to determine who had secured his access to Kirov and obtained the weapon. The official version ran that Nikolaev was supposedly the husband of Kirov’s secretary and had been made to believe that Kirov was having an affair with his wife. In terms of eliminating all witnesses, the murder of Kirov is extraordinarily similar to the assassination of President John Kennedy. At a major Moscow show trial, Kirov’s murder was described as an attempt organized by Stalin’s political opponents. So it was, but after Stalin’s death the neo-Trotskyists tried to reinterpret this struggle as the result of Stalin’s suspiciousness and mania. They always erase themselves from history because they occupy such an unsightly place in it.

Yagoda and Kaganovich constantly impressed upon Stalin the thought of the danger threatening him from “numerous enemies.” They did this to strengthen the concentration of their own personal power and, under the guise of fighting Trotskyists, to liquidate Stalin’s most reliable cadres. The country was caught in a vise: on one side there was the open sabotage activity of the Trotskyists directed from abroad by Trotsky, and on the other side even more subtle subversive work was carried out by Trotskyists disguised as Stalin’s comrades. But Stalin was not an obedient toy in their hands. He himself had an excellent grasp of personnel. There began such a gripping struggle between these two parties—the so-called Stalinists and the Trotskyists, and all of them against Stalin—the likes of which had probably not been seen since the French Revolution. In fact, membership in these two unofficial parties roughly followed national lines: Trotskyists were Jews and “Shabbes goyim,” and all the rest, plus some Jews—Stalinists and “quasi-Stalinists.” Stalin was dismantling the absolute Jewish dictatorship in Russia. But it was far from simple.

Lazar greedily seized control of the country with both hands. The events of the following years surpassed even his boldest dreams. Kaganovich imposed total terror on the country. The Russian people, still not recovered, once again experienced the horror of Trotsky’s “Red Terror,” but now carried out by his heir—Kaganovich. Lazar’s method of work was very simple. He sat at the desk in his office and issued orders as if he were ordering dishes in a restaurant. Breakfast: The peasant problem?—“Intensify the famine. Exile to Siberia!” Lunch: A political problem?—“Shoot those who disagree. Send suspects to corrective labor camps, which corrected people only to the next world.” Dinner: Problems abroad?—“Step up our activity!” The Lubyanka once again became a prison from which no one returned. This life-and-death struggle continued until 1939, until the moment when war with Hitler began to loom on the horizon. After that, everything abruptly broke off and fell silent, just as it had once begun.

No one was safe from Lazar’s all‑seeing eye, not even members of the government. Once, for example, Bukharin was summoned to Kaganovich, who confronted him with Sokolnikov (Girsh Yankelevich Brilliant) in the presence of high‑ranking NKVD officials. At this meeting Sokolnikov gave a detailed and convincing account of a “parallel anti‑government Trotskyite centre” in which, it turned out, Bukharin had actively participated. This organization had indeed existed. But Lazar, after aggressively conducting this “interrogation‑confrontation,” finally ordered Sokolnikov arrested and led away. Then Lazar turned to Bukharin and said in a sweet, friendly tone, “Lies through his teeth, the whore.” Bukharin breathed a sigh of relief, but two days later, during a report to Stalin, Lazar called Bukharin a “fascist stooge” and demanded that he be shot. On the report sheet there was also the signature and endorsement of Molotov. It was obvious that Lazar had no intention of putting his own well‑being at risk.

Lazar was gathering momentum. He began to “purge” the Moscow party organization. In the space of a single year 70 percent of its members—about half a million people—were expelled from the party, and there seemed to be no end to it. Nothing and no one could stop Lazar. People, however, believed he was acting on Stalin’s personal orders. For that reason they called him Stalin’s “right hand.” Neo‑Trotskyists have conveniently seized on this circumstance to pin the victims of Lazar’s terror on Stalin. Letters even arrived at the Kremlin from every corner of the country, addressed to “Comrades Stalin and Kaganovich.”

And still, this was not enough for Lazar. He had already attained a position that no one else could match. Like Trotsky in his day, he ran the Central Committee’s transport department, he was chairman of the Central Commission for the Verification of Party Ranks, and he headed the commission that prepared the Seventeenth Party Congress. When Stalin went on vacation to the Black Sea, it was Lazar who replaced him in Moscow. No one in the country had as many levers of party governance as Lazar Kaganovich. And he aggressively continued to expand his sphere of influence. Nothing escaped his attention. He even falsified the results of the secret ballot for the Central Committee, destroying about 300 ballots on which Stalin had been struck, because the alternative to Stalin as General Secretary was none other than the then still living Kirov, who had destroyed Trotskyists with far greater resolve than Stalin himself.

From that time on, Lazar actively meddled in everything that happened. It was Kaganovich who directed the so‑called reconstruction of the capital, with no regard whatsoever for preserving national historical monuments. Mercilessly destroyed were many Russian shrines: the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour, the Sukharev Tower, the Strastnoy Monastery, and many other valuable architectural structures. It has been roughly calculated that, due to Kaganovich’s heavy hand, more than four hundred of the most significant architectural monuments were destroyed in central Moscow alone. After Kaganovich’s “reconstruction,” Moscow lost its historical look. The Iversky Gates were razed to the ground, despite numerous protests by leading architects. Lazar also “restored order” to the railways: freight shipments by rail noticeably increased. Under his leadership the Soviet railways loaded ninety thousand wagons every day, whereas previously they had loaded only fifty thousand. He knew the means to accomplish a given task—it was fear. Lazar issued an order under which, for any disruption in railway operations, those responsible “will bear personal responsibility.” This meant only one thing: first, the Lubyanka, and then the well‑trodden path.

The newspapers were filled with Lazar Moiseyevich Kaganovich. He was flattered when yet another long, laudatory article about him appeared in The New York Times:

“The reputation of Lazar Kaganovich for putting through huge projects in Russia threatens to dim Stalin’s. Mr. Kaganovich is the father of the machine‑tractor stations, the MTS, in which Communist commissars are supreme. These commissars direct the collectivized peasantry, stimulate agricultural production and consolidate the ‘agricultural revolution.’ Kaganovich is also credited with the liberalization of literature and art which has occurred in Soviet Russia during the last few years. He is the chairman of the Moscow Soviet, which is a tough post, and also a member of the Politburo. He is now engaged in revitalizing the railways. This task has proved beyond many, but not Mr. Kaganovich.”

Statistical data state that in the few years between collectivization and the war, in the camps, at the end of the 1930s, more than twenty million people perished. That is to say, over ten years, together with the war, from 1935 to 1945, more than 40 million people died in the USSR. If to this figure you add the 60 million who perished from 1914 to 1921, that already makes one hundred million. Then, the period from 1921 to 1929 claimed another 10 million victims. Collectivization over six years produced yet another more than 10 million. The post‑war years added another 10 million. The total number of victims in Russia, falling upon three consecutive generations, exceeds one hundred and thirty million people. History has never known such a toll in a single, individual country. And it could have been far greater if the Trotskyists had succeeded with their “world revolution,” which would have meant yet another, an extraordinary global mutual slaughter.

Meanwhile, the extermination of the Russian people, instigated by the Trotskyites, was gaining momentum. Only the monarchist newspaper abroad, Vozrozhdenie, angrily condemned the destruction of the Russian people taking place in the land of the Soviets. But this did not touch Lazar at all. He was ready to exterminate hundreds, thousands, and tens of millions of Russians—which he did. He set people against one another, forced children to denounce their parents, husbands to denounce wives, wives to denounce husbands. No one was exempt. People were afraid to communicate, withdrew into themselves, spoke in whispers. In stores filled with people, silence reigned. Even theatrical comedies were met by the audience with only a restrained chuckle. People were afraid to laugh out loud. And no one could feel safe. No one. He destroyed everything and everyone in his path. Lazar declared anyone who disagreed with the party’s policy an “enemy of the people,” although over time he himself began to wonder who would survive when all this was over.

In those years he was very rarely with his family. Like most party hierarchs, all his time was taken up by work in the Kremlin and trips around the country. Earlier, Lazar could not even imagine the heights of power he now found himself at. Now he made full use of this power. He was only forty, yet he had the right to crush everything and everyone that hindered his rise.

However, Lazar began to sense instinctively that he was up to his head in blood, and that if he continued to destroy the country’s population at such a pace, nothing would save him. This did not suit Lazar. He loved safety and liked to work with certainty and without personal risk. Lazar decided that since he was involved in a grand destructive activity, for insurance he should launch a grand constructive activity and hide behind it. Like Trotsky, he held the post of People’s Commissar of Railways. Lazar himself was an uneducated man who had never traveled abroad and knew nothing beyond his specific job. However, the right people whispered to him that in all the major capitals of the world there was such a thing as a metro. Lazar immediately got fired up by this idea. Moreover, after he became notorious in the New York Times, it was hinted to Lazar that he would personally be helped with the construction. Lazar planned to create, in record-short time, a vast underground transportation network unrivaled in the world.

Lazar studied the problem. The world’s first metro was built in London in 1863 and used steam locomotives. Then metros were built in Boston (1898), Paris (1900), Berlin (1902), New York (1904), Madrid (1919), and Tokyo (1927). However, while the New York metro looked more like sewage pipes, the Moscow metro was to become a grandiose achievement of Soviet power, attract a stream of Western journalists and tourists, demonstrate the superiority of the socialist economic system, and, most importantly, divert attention from Lazar’s destructive activities. Despite his lack of education, in practice Lazar was far smarter than his learned comrades like the “leading party theoretician” Bukharin, who was among the first to be burned.

The architectural design of the metro stations was to be monumental and reflect, in Lazar’s words, “the grandeur of socialist construction.” Of course, Lazar had no experience for carrying out such a colossal task. He himself knew it, and Stalin understood it too, but Kaganovich possessed the ability and skill to solve problems by meticulous attention to the smallest details. Stalin entrusted him with heading the construction of the Moscow Metro, and Lazar threw himself headlong into the work to complete this grandiose construction project in the shortest record time. He created an unprecedented work schedule: around the clock, in three shifts, 70,000 workers labored on the construction. He displayed ingenuity and boundless rudeness when problems arose that could not be solved by ordinary means. He gave no one any mercy. He ignored safety warnings from specialists and issued orders that professionals would definitely have refrained from. The results of such willfulness led to injuries and the deaths of many workers. The work schedule approved by Lazar, in the workers’ own words, “kept them by the throat.” The workers hated Kaganovich. On the eve of the new year 1933, he addressed the metro builders:

“We must admit with all responsibility that at the current pace of work it is impossible to complete the metro by November 7, 1934. The main task of the day is to speed up construction. In the shortest possible time, we are obliged to increase the rate of bringing soil to the surface fivefold and to accelerate tunnel boring eight to nine times.”

The decision was not discussed. It was an order, and it had to be carried out. Speed, speed, speed. A murmur of discontent arose.

— He doesn’t know a damn thing! — I don’t give a hoot about him!

But the outburst of discontent ceased as quickly as it arose. A broad network of informants quickly collected and reported the names of the indignant and “unconscious” ones. Many of them were found guilty and shot.

Lazar appointed Khrushchev as the de facto head of this shock construction project. He was obliged to implement Kaganovich’s orders. Bulganin became responsible for the supply of construction. Simultaneously, Lazar controlled Khrushchev. These three effectively turned Moscow into a military camp to finish the construction by the May holidays of 1935. Lazar left no stone unturned. He forced people of all ages to join the construction. Sometimes he would talk with groups of workers, noting the importance of their labor, but actually letting them know that careful surveillance was established over all of them. One day he held a conversation with young workers—diggers. Some were no older than eleven. One boy asked why their wages were so small. He explained that his father had noticed this and demanded an “explanation.” Lazar replied:

“Well, all right. Perhaps the wage level is indeed small. But you must know that wages are calculated based on the speed of work.”

The idea was clear: to earn a piece of bread, you had to slave away as Lazar ordered. The young worker learned that lesson, but his father did not. The boy continued to dig the earth at a shock pace, and his father was exiled to Siberia.

Nevertheless, in May 1935 the Moscow Metro was opened. It was distinguished by elegance, beauty, and convenience. It became a real achievement, and Lazar knew it. He made sure that others also recognized this fact and appreciated Kaganovich’s direct involvement. A parade was held on Red Square in honor of the metro builders. In his speech, Lazar said that “Russian workers build for the people, whereas in other countries they build only for the rich.” These words were met with loud applause. Even the workers applauded, but certainly not for Kaganovich. Then Lazar, together with Maya, Maria, Bulganin, and Khrushchev, took a ride in a car of the new metro. The other members of the Politburo were forced to meekly follow suit. Stalin was working in the Kremlin; he would see Lazar later. Lazar was bursting with pride, especially after Stalin announced that the metro would bear his, Kaganovich’s, name, and it would be emblazoned, carved in stone, above the entrance to every station. He even felt his eyes moisten. That had not happened to him in a long time. The last time he had succumbed to emotion was when Rosa told him about the death of his parents. At the rally held in front of the entrance to the “Ploshchad Revolyutsii” station, Stalin pinned the Order of Lenin to Lazar’s new suit. Lazar glanced at the blue Moscow sky. His soul rejoiced: “Where are you now? Where are you, Papa, Mama, Uncle Levik, Morris? Where are you?” It was the most momentous day of his life, and he wanted it repeated in the future. At the ceremonial dinner given by the Moscow City Soviet in honor of the French and English engineers who had personally helped Kaganovich with the construction, Lazar concluded his speech with these words:

“The opening of the metro means more than the opening of a factory or plant. It is a symbol of improving the life of Muscovites, who entrusted us with the care of their bright future. In Western countries, achievements are oriented toward the wealthy capitalist class. There they make luxurious cars for the propertied class but do not care about improving transportation for the common people. We, on the contrary, think about comfort for the working people. We built the Moscow Metro not for profit but for the convenience of Muscovites.”

However, not everyone present applauded. Lazar himself believed that the metro had saved his life.

It wasn’t limited to just carving his name above the entrances of the Moscow metro. Now cities were being named after him. The names of nine settlements, including Kabany, were changed to “Kaganovich.” Lazar would have preferred that Kabany had received his name earlier, when those who could remember him as a boy still lived there. By this time, the town was populated by newcomers who couldn’t care less whether they lived in Kabany or Kaganovich.

Lazar was given the nickname “Iron Commissar.” His post as People’s Commissar of Transport allowed him to meddle in all state affairs. He handed over the administration of Moscow to Khrushchev, first as secretary of the Baumansky, then the Krasnopresnensky district party committees, and from 1934 as First Secretary of the Moscow City and Regional Party Committee. What Stalin had once done for Lazar, Lazar was now doing for Khrushchev.

Meanwhile, under Kaganovich’s watchful eye, the destruction of the peoples of Russia continued.

The New York Times wrote:

“Stalin’s chief shock worker, Lazar Kaganovich, who more than anyone else worked to ensure the success of collectivization, and who later successfully reorganized the railway transport, was recently put in charge of the entire heavy industry. He wasted no time and immediately tackled local production, which was behind schedule. Today he delivered a decisive blow, dismissing leading workers of the coal trust and introducing a whole series of reforms.”

Kaganovich indeed wasted no time. He not only dismissed but physically eliminated leading specialists. Lazar had found an astonishingly reliable way to destroy people utterly devoted to their homeland and to Stalin, as wreckers and Trotskyists. And since only he knew the true principle for distinguishing one from the other, no one could find fault with him.

Lazar had always been concerned about the reliability of his inner circle. Rosa had been assigned to Stalin, and Khrushchev was always close at hand. Now Lazar remembered his brother Mikhail and transferred him to Moscow as Deputy People’s Commissar of Heavy Industry. To further strengthen the influence of the Kaganovich clan, he appointed his older brother head of the Main Directorate of the Aviation Industry. This post opened the way for Mikhail Kaganovich into the highest echelons of power: he became a member of the CPSU Central Committee.
Yuri, too, was not forgotten. His all-powerful younger brother moved Yuri to Moscow and arranged a job for him at the People’s Commissariat of Foreign Trade.
Soon it became clear that Moscow was turning into a hub for the Kaganovich clan, and some members of the Politburo, not without reason, saw this as a threat even to Stalin himself and warned him. But Stalin trusted Kaganovich. The misgivings of his comrades did not put him on his guard.
In 1937 Mikhail became People’s Commissar of Defense Industry and, by Stalin’s decision, was sent to Washington to study the work of aircraft factories and new technology. At the same time he was to sound out the possibility of flights by Soviet aircraft across the North Pole to the United States. Lazar fully approved of Stalin’s decision to send Mikhail to the USA. Stalin had at first suggested that Lazar himself go, but he declined the offer. He explained that he was very busy with state affairs in Moscow. On the eve of Mikhail’s departure, Lazar shared his thoughts with Maria:
— I simply cannot leave. There’s no telling what Stalin might do in my absence. A lot of people are trying to set him against me. If I went to America and was only halfway to Paris, they’d already find you a new husband.
And yet this decision did not come easily to him. He very much wanted to meet Uncle Lyovik and find out how he was living. And was he even alive? He was already close to ninety. Lazar badly wanted to see both him and Morris.
“He’s probably been married for ages and has grown-up children,” he said to Maria. “His children are probably older than I was when I left Kabanov.”
At the same time it was pleasant for him to realize how much he had achieved compared to his relatives. The New York Times wrote about him from time to time — a paper that never created a positive image for just anyone, only for its own — while it wrote nothing at all about Uncle Lyovik and Morris. This thought amused Lazar.
Mikhail left as part of a fifteen-member delegation. On the eve of his departure he told Lazar that he could try to track down and visit their relatives in the USA. He would even go to New York for that purpose. Lazar knew that Mikhail was less eager to meet relatives than to see New York.
And for Mikhail, this trip was a chance to score points against Lazar. Mikhail was very ambitious. He deeply resented the fact that his younger brother had soared so far above him and that all of his own advances were owed to Lazar. This trip was Mikhail’s swan song. He would be the one representing the Soviet government. He would meet Uncle Lyovik, and Uncle Lyovik would see which of them was the more important nephew. Lazar’s name appeared in the newspapers, but he, Mikhail, was here, in America! Mikhail did not even fully grasp how deeply these feelings ran inside him. Yuri, for his part, did not care; he had a family, children, and anything beyond that simply didn’t interest him.
For two weeks Lazar waited impatiently for his brother’s return. He held daily reports on Mikhail Kaganovich’s movements and meetings in the USA. The first few days were spent in Washington, meeting with members of the American administration and visiting airbases around the capital. Then he set off for New York to try to find and meet with the relatives. The people assigned to report on Mikhail’s every step did their job well. They even sent a report about his visit to 166th Street at the intersection with Grand Concourse in the Bronx, New York, and his scanning of the neighborhood telephone directory under the letter “K.” The report ended there. It seemed no one knew exactly whom Mikhail had visited. Lazar could only wait for his return.
Lazar was on edge. He took out his mood on those around him more than usual. Even the always even-tempered Molotov felt it necessary to crack a few jokes and make a few barbed remarks. Stalin, who loved a good joke, also teased Lazar. They sent him a package of American canned goods wrapped in a copy of the New York Times that carried his speech at a Central Committee session. But the intended effect failed because Kaganovich did not know English. For a laugh, they even arranged a meeting between Lazar and a representative of the American embassy, who spent a good hour telling him about the Bronx. The more anxious he became, it seemed, the more the others were amused.
At last the day of Mikhail’s return arrived. Lazar eagerly expected his brother to bring him warm greetings from Uncle Lyovik, Morris, and other relatives — their urgent pleas to come and visit them, and tales of how all of New York knew of the heights to which their close relative Lazar Kaganovich had risen in Moscow.
“So, Mikhail, did you have a good trip?”
He tried to appear calm and gave the impression that he was more interested in the business side of the trip. Mikhail did not know with what impatience and anxiety Lazar had awaited his return.
“The assignment was very productive,” Mikhail answered.
And he launched into a long account of the American technical achievements he had seen. Lazar leaned back in his chair but was not listening. His thoughts were far away. He wanted to hear news — real news. He would have to wait for Mikhail to get to the subject that interested him, Lazar, of his own accord. One mustn’t give oneself away or show one’s feelings. Mikhail talked for a good two hours, clearly admiring himself.
“Believe it or not, they even served us pancakes. Pancakes with caviar! Mountains of pancakes! Their food is generally very good, especially chicken and meat. Nothing like ours. Their meat is tender and not at all stringy.” Mikhail, naturally, had no idea that all of it was already unnatural.
Mikhail wanted to add something else, but Lazar could no longer restrain himself:
“Well, and what about New York? You went to some place in the Bronx?”
Mikhail glanced at his brother in surprise. He knew that all his steps were reported back to Moscow, but he had not expected such minute surveillance. He began talking about the trip to the Bronx, and Lazar, with a sigh, settled comfortably into his chair. He wanted to pepper Mikhail with questions, but he held back, thinking his brother would see such interest as weakness. Mikhail started from afar. He began to talk about New York architecture, the bustle and the endless stream of people and cars, and about how New York was sharply different from Washington, whose center was very conservative while the rest was a city of Negroes. Lazar reflected that his brother was a thoroughly mediocre man, incapable of grasping the essence of things, and that without the all-powerful Lazar’s help Mikhail would have spent his whole life as a low-grade apparatchik in some hole.
“And your trip to the Bronx?” Lazar could hold back no longer.
At last Mikhail came to the topic that interested Lazar.
“A very interesting trip. I don’t even know why. In the telephone book I didn’t find a single Kaganovich. There were phone numbers for some Kagans, but as it turned out they had nothing to do with our family. In fact, I couldn’t find any of ours, including Uncle Lyovik.”
Lazar’s heart nearly stopped…
“But he found me himself.”
Lazar could not believe his ears and stared at his brother. Mikhail went on:
“Some man called the hotel where I was staying and left his phone number for me. It was Uncle Lyovik. He gave me his address. Lazar, it was so strange! I went to the Bronx and met Uncle Lyovik. There was no one in his apartment except some unfamiliar man. I don’t think we were even introduced.”
“How is Uncle Lyovik?” Lazar broke in.
“Excellent. He still has his little beard, but now it’s completely gray. He’s gone all gray. You know, he’s already ninety-three, but he looks about forty-three. His voice is still as quiet and calm. And, most interesting of all, he runs the family business and seems quite sure of himself. And he knows about you.”
Lazar strained his ears.
“He reads all the newspapers and follows all your promotions.”
Mikhail spoke this last sentence almost reluctantly. Lazar waited for his brother to continue and tell him in more detail how proud Uncle Lyovik was of him, how he rejoiced in his successes and approved of them. But Mikhail’s thoughts were far from that.
“He explained why their name is not in the phone book. They changed the spelling to an English style, and it hasn’t been entered into the directory yet. Now their name is pronounced something like ‘Kahanovitz.’”
Lazar frowned: “Kahanovitz? What kind of name is that?”
“Not everyone changed it that way. The family has scattered; only Uncle Lyovik stayed in New York because the family business keeps him there. It has to do with women’s dressmaking. I think he owns a whole factory. Typical capitalism. I didn’t quite understand what he was saying, but most of our family lives in other cities. He didn’t explain which ones. They also have private businesses, but he didn’t go into detail.”
“And did you see Morris?”
“No, he moved too. All I know is that he got engaged to Hana Gutman from Mozyr. Remember we heard something about that? He already has grandchildren. Can you believe that Uncle Lyovik is now a great Zayde?”
“Well, and where is everyone else? Why don’t we know anything about them?”
Mikhail looked intently at Lazar. He still had much to tell, and he was not sure that Lazar would take it the right way.
“You may not like hearing this, but he did not want you to know — especially not you. Let me explain.”
Mikhail sighed.
“They’re afraid of you, Lazar. Afraid that because of you they’ll have big trouble. That they’ll be taken and forced to go back, and in the end they’ll wind up in Siberia. It seemed to me that Uncle Lyovik understands our affairs far better than the average American, as does everybody from Russia over there. That’s why the family changed its name, and our relatives scattered all over America, to places where no one knows them.”
Lazar frowned.
“You see, they work for themselves. None of them pays any taxes and they don’t fill out any government documents at all. That’s why they don’t want anyone to know what they do or where they live. I think they’ve never paid taxes, but they’re afraid — more than that, they’re terrified — that this will come to light and they’ll be sent back.”
“And could the American government actually do that?” Lazar asked naively.
“No, they think you could do it. They’re afraid of you. Almost pathologically afraid. Morris, who is the second man in the family after Uncle Lyovik, has decreed that none of the relatives has the right to travel abroad, to obtain a foreign passport or visa, and that no one is to maintain contact with the country they used to live in. When they communicate among themselves, they trust neither the telephone nor the mail: everything is done in person, at home behind closed doors. Total secrecy.”
Mikhail paused to catch his breath.
“And what about Uncle Lyovik himself? He called you, after all.”
Mikhail laughed.
“You know him. He’s his own master and listens to no one. What has he got to lose at ninety-three? What, give him a droshky and send him to Siberia to haul ice to Moscow?”
Lazar smiled — good, old Uncle Lyovik! Thank God he at least had kept his sense of humor.
“Tell me about Morris.”
“All I know is that he doesn’t live in New York. He has — or rather had — four children: one child died. And he has two grandchildren. That’s all I know, that he’s terrified of you. The words he uses for you are not compliments. It feels as though he knows everything that’s going on. I don’t know how, but he’s aware of all our affairs.”
“Does he really think I could harm him or anyone else in our family? Uncle Lyovik doesn’t think so. So why does Morris have a different opinion?”
Lazar looked crushed. He wound his prayer beads tighter and tighter around his palm.
“Mikhail, do they really not understand us at all? We’re one family. Isn’t that above everything?!”
He glanced up at the ceiling, and when he lowered his eyes he noticed Rosa standing in the doorway. She had learned that Mikhail was back and had come to see him. Lazar did not know how long she had been standing there, but from her expression he understood that she had overheard their conversation.
“But at least they know we’re alive, don’t they?” He choked. “They know we survived here.”
He looked at his brother and sister.
“But why don’t they trust us — why?”
Mikhail and Rosa exchanged glances.
“Us?” — And Rosa shook her head.

Mikhail’s story had exactly the opposite effect on Lazar, and he buried himself even more in his work. With even greater vehemence, he began interfering in all state affairs. He even managed to obtain an award for Mikhail from Stalin for his successful trip to the USA. Lazar’s actions were not always based on logic.

In honor of his fiftieth birthday, Mikhail was awarded the Order of the Red Banner of Labor for his enormous services to the development of the USSR’s aviation industry and for organizing a nonstop flight from Moscow to Nikolayevsk-on-Amur. Everyone formally congratulated Mikhail and handed him a congratulatory letter signed by famous Soviet aviators. Mikhail was overjoyed, while Lazar very much hoped that the news would somehow reach the Bronx as well.

Meanwhile, major changes were taking place in the country. By April 1938, Lazar Kaganovich was considered the third man in the Soviet hierarchy, ahead of Voroshilov but behind Stalin and Yezhov, who had replaced Yagoda. Lazar was occupied in many fields. Following Ordzhonikidze’s death, he assumed the post of People’s Commissar of Heavy Industry. He subsequently became People’s Commissar of the Fuel Industry and People’s Commissar of the Oil Industry. Thus, having acquired an enormous sphere of influence, the Kaganovich brothers controlled all the most vital industry plus foreign economic ties.

But Yezhov, having become People’s Commissar of the NKVD in place of the Trotskyite Yagoda, dealt the Trotskyites a decisive, crushing blow. Yet it did not go unpunished for him. At the end of 1938, hidden Trotskyites brought Yezhov down from the post of NKVD Commissar, and then finished him off completely, shooting him in 1939. In Yezhov’s place, the Trotskyites succeeded in installing their own man once again—the Georgian Jew Lavrenty Pavlovich Beria, whose mother was Jewish. Yezhov managed to hold on to that key post of NKVD Commissar for only two years. But in those two years, Yezhov beheaded the Trotskyite dragon. Stalin, however, could not protect the man who had, in fact, saved the country from a Trotskyite counterrevolutionary coup and saved Stalin personally. As a result of Yezhov’s destruction, Kaganovich moved a step higher. In August 1938, Lazar Kaganovich was appointed Deputy Chairman of the Council of People’s Commissars. “The New York Times», which had always been the official mouthpiece of the Trotskyites and neo-Trotskyites, immediately trumpeted this. Officially, Lazar became the second most powerful man in the state after Stalin. Now Lazar could openly pass judgment on everyone and everything. Nevertheless, all his statements remained in agreement with Stalin’s opinions and wishes, about which he learned first of all, from his sister Rosa.

At the opening of Gorky Park of Culture and Recreation, Lazar Kaganovich said:
«We have built many factories, whereas Germany has had to close its old factories. This happened because Germany started paying interest on its foreign debts. If we had begun to pay interest on the tsarist debts that were cancelled by the revolution, all the money we earn would not even have sufficed to pay the interest on those debts.
We are fighting for peace, like no other government. And now we have tanks in our hands capable of smashing the enemy. Now we have airplanes, even airplanes capable of overtaking the enemy on his own territory. Our relations with Japan are getting worse and worse. Remember how in 1904 the Japanese treacherously attacked Russian troops in Port Arthur? But the tsarist government was a foolish government. Now the enemy will have to deal with the Soviet government. If Japanese generals try our borders, they will learn the strength of the Red Army. Now other countries, in their politics, must reckon with the strength of the Red Army, armed with the most modern weapons—tanks, artillery, and chemical means.»

Interestingly, in the end, Japan’s main adversary turned out to be the United States. So how, in World War II, did the world’s first state of workers and peasants end up in the same harness as the world’s first bastion of imperialists and capitalists, the “sharks” of Wall Street? Though uneducated, Lazar knew the answer; otherwise he would not have survived in his position. That is why Lazar hurried and ensured everything to turn Germany into a Soviet Germany. Hitler struck the Trotskyites in Germany an even stronger blow than Stalin did. Now, the Wall Street sharks were busy organizing the mutual destruction of the USSR and Germany, which had both slipped from their control. They succeeded in this quite well.

After Trotsky’s failed revolution in Munich in 1923, German Trotskyites staged uprisings in Saxony, Thuringia, and Hamburg. However, Trotsky was already ill. This blocked assistance to the German comrades and led to the defeat of the insurgents. Under the Versailles Treaty, Germany was carved up piecemeal. The German people were destitute. Everything they earned went to pay interest to Wall Street. There were 6 million unemployed in Germany—one in ten people. In 1930, 4.5 million people voted for the German Communists, who were subservient to the USSR. For Hitler, 6.5 million voted. But the Wall Street bankers didn’t care; their main goal was to remove Stalin from the USSR. Since Trotsky had failed to do it, they didn’t care who would—Hitler or the German Communist leader Thälmann. The Wall Street bankers financed both Thälmann and Hitler, and Hitler himself might not have suspected the true source of the money flowing into the party coffers. And in 1933, Hitler, who offered the German people a real plan to escape poverty, came to power.

In 1936, the Spanish version of Trotsky’s ‘world revolution’ was organized. The ‘Republicans’ in Spain, behind whom local Trotskyist-internationalists hid, were supported by the USA, England, and France, and, naturally, by the USSR, where, despite Yezhov’s purge, Trotskyists never lost their grip on the apparatus of the NKVD and the Commissariat of Foreign Affairs. Yezhov, of course, dealt a crushing blow to the Trotskyist-internationalists in the USSR; if Yezhov had not done so, the Second World War would have seemed like child’s play. Hitler resolutely sided with the nationalists of General Franco. By doing so, Hitler made it clear to the Wall Street sharks that he had no intention of carrying out the orders of the international mafia. War between the USSR, which under Stalin’s leadership had also taken a nationalist course of development, and Germany became inevitable. The USA and England sealed the fate of the USSR and Germany. Now everything depended on the Trotskyist ‘fifth column’ in both countries.

On August 23, 1939, at ten in the morning, Lazar stood at the edge of the runway of an airfield near Moscow. Inner troops had formed cordons all around, and twenty-five schoolchildren with huge bouquets of flowers shifted impatiently from foot to foot, awaiting the guests. Lazar looked up at the blue, clear Moscow sky. Right on schedule, two huge Junkers-88s were coming in to land. The Germans, as always, were very punctual. Lazar valued that quality highly. Flying in was the German Foreign Minister, Joachim Ribbentrop. Negotiations were to take place to conclude a peace treaty between Germany and the Soviet Union. The two planes landed one after another. The welcoming party was headed by Molotov, whose bald head gleamed in the August sunlight. Molotov, at just 160 centimeters tall, strained with all his might to appear taller—an exceptional example of Soviet stoicism. He also very much wanted to seem like an English gentleman. Only a few months earlier, Molotov had replaced Litvinov (real name: Meir Genokh Movshevich Wallach-Finkelstein) as People’s Commissar of Foreign Affairs. Litvinov had managed the foreign affairs of the USSR in a very simple way. Unlike Lazar, Litvinov had never actually been in the USSR. He was what the Trotskyists called a ‘professional internationalist revolutionary.’ Litvinov was just one of his ten surnames. He was born and had spent his entire life abroad. Litvinov hardly spoke Russian and preferred to express himself in French or English. Litvinov was so independent of his own country, relying, like Trotsky, on forces abroad, that he pursued his own foreign policy without even consulting Stalin. For a long time Stalin could do nothing about him. Litvinov’s patrons stood too high. But in this situation, Adolf Hitler did not consider him—an international Jew born in Poland who didn’t even speak Russian—an acceptable negotiating partner.

Seizing on this circumstance, Stalin finally got rid of the overly independent Litvinov.

Hitler was well aware that Trotsky and Litvinov (Wallach), strictly speaking, had always been citizens of the United States of America. Anyone can verify this by looking at the annual American almanac Who’s Who in American Jewry from the 1930s, which listed both Trotsky and Litvinov as American citizens. Hitler also knew perfectly well the overall alignment in the coming world war: on one side, the international financial mafia, with its headquarters in the banks of New York and London, and on the other, individual nations — Germany, Spain, Japan, and the USSR — trying to escape international bondage. It was no secret to anyone that Wall Street bankers had helped Hitler come to power with a very specific goal: he was supposed to attack the USSR in order to eliminate Stalin. After that, without Hitler’s further help, Stalin would be replaced by Trotsky, who was then carrying on a frenzied campaign abroad. As always, Trotsky had unlimited sums of money at his disposal outside the country and a mass of loyal followers at every level of power in the USSR.

Once in power, however, Hitler abruptly changed course and stopped justifying the hopes of those who had placed him at the helm. The idea of restoring Trotsky to power — something he could not even bear to hear about — did not appeal to Hitler in the slightest. In just six months, Hitler fed, clothed, and warmed a destitute and hungry Germany. The people believed in him and followed him. The international bankers realized they were losing two key countries: both the USSR and Germany. This they could not allow.

Immediately after Hitler came to power, in August 1933, an emergency Jewish Economic Congress was convened in Holland. This Congress was called specifically to organize a worldwide Jewish economic war against Germany — a boycott. At the Congress, the American billionaire and Jew Untermayer spoke and declared a global Jewish war on Germany back in 1933. For Jews, this was not a voluntary matter. Every Jew in every country was obliged to cause harm to Germany and its representatives. Otherwise, that Jew would lose the support of his community. In America, high-quality German goods — down to women’s stockings — immediately vanished from store shelves. After that, a German zeppelin airship that had arrived in America on a goodwill visit was shot down with an anti-tank rifle. Then a German diplomat was murdered in France. Anti-German hysteria, just as before World War I, reached worldwide proportions.

Under these conditions, Germany took the only correct course: peaceful labor and preparation for an inevitable war. In those years, German industry was the most efficient in the history of any country. Germany was in no way interested in starting a war too soon. Peace would give Germany a reprieve from an attack by England, or by whichever nation they chose for that mission.

Before the visit of German Foreign Minister Ribbentrop to the USSR, British Prime Minister Chamberlain came to see Hitler in Germany. Chamberlain was a conscious agent, or commissioner, of the Anglo-American bankers. He walked in to see Hitler like a master and, dispensing with all formalities, asked: “What were you told? You were supposed to attack the USSR! And what are you doing instead? — You’re building up your country’s military-industrial might!” Hitler remained silent for a long time… Then he said: “I need to prepare…” and left, making it clear the conversation was over. Ribbentrop, who was present during the exchange, cleverly recorded the conversation between Chamberlain and Hitler on a tape recorder. Chamberlain’s masters didn’t care who attacked whom — Germany attacking the USSR or the USSR attacking Germany — so on August 11, 1939, a British military mission flew to Stalin to persuade him to attack Germany. The negotiations in Moscow with the British went on for several days. Things reached the point where Voroshilov had already settled the question of Soviet troops passing through Poland and Romania to attack Germany.

Upon learning of this, Ribbentrop took the tape recording of the Chamberlain–Hitler conversation and hurriedly flew to see Stalin personally. Ribbentrop wanted to prevent the war between Germany and the USSR that had long been planned in the ruling circles of England and the United States. Stalin listened to the recording. The non-aggression pact between Germany and the USSR became an accomplished fact on the spot. The USA and England were in complete shock.

The plane door swung open, and about thirty senior officers in uniform stepped out. Last to emerge was a tall, thin man with an umbrella in one hand and a hat in the other. That was Joachim von Ribbentrop. He was the only one in civilian clothes, a dark-blue suit.

Lazar smiled, thanking Beria; he knew everything about this man. Born in Germany, educated in France. Worked in the USA and Canada. So impressed Hitler with his phenomenal memory that Hitler entrusted him with all foreign policy. Ribbentrop had an exceptional memory. He never wrote anything down. He remembered everything by heart. Ribbentrop spoke several dozen foreign languages. In particular, he was fluent in Russian. When the Americans won and captured all the surviving German leadership, they began subjecting them to various analyses and tests. Among them, they gave the captive German leadership an IQ (Intelligence Quotient) test to determine their mental development coefficient. The results impressed the Americans. The results of the IQ testing are expressed as a “mountain peak”: most normal people have an IQ between 90 and 100. Fewer have an IQ between 100 and 115. Very few have an IQ between 115 and 130, and almost no one has an IQ above 130. Above 140 are the rare geniuses. Of course, one can prepare for any test, so it is important to test an unprepared person, as was the case with the leaders of the German state. Joachim Ribbentrop’s intelligence quotient was 129.

Hermann Göring’s IQ – 138; Kaltenbrunner – 113; Hjalmar Schacht – 143; Arthur Seyss-Inquart – 141; Karl Dönitz – 138; Franz von Papen – 134; Erich Raeder – 134; Dr. Hans Frank – 130; Hans Fritzsche – 130; Baldur von Schirach – 130; Admiral Wilhelm Keitel – 129; Albert Speer – 128; Alfred Jodl – 127; Konstantin von Neurath – 125; Walther Funk – 124; Wilhelm Frick – 124; Franz Sauckel – 118; Julius Streicher – 106. That was the most intellectually developed government of all times and peoples. No one, very prudently, ever determined the IQ of Khrushchev or Lazar himself. . Banquets and meetings followed one after another. For Lazar, this was his first high-level international meeting, and he decided to keep to the sidelines, merely listening and observing. Ribbentrop was a master of his craft, and Lazar did not even dare to speak with him. Most of the conversations concerned the partition of Poland between the USSR and Germany. Which territories would go to Germany, which to the USSR, where the borders would lie. Lazar had only the vaguest idea about all this. Under this treaty, the Baltic states, Finland, and part of Poland in the form of Western Ukraine and Western Belarus passed to the USSR. Germany also received its part of Poland, particularly the part that most interested Germany – the Danzig Corridor. Before the First World War, Germany had held the entire Baltic Sea coast up to East Prussia. Poland had no access to the sea. Under the Treaty of Versailles, Britain and the USA cut off from Germany the coast adjacent to Poland. Now, under the treaty between the USSR and Germany, Germany was regaining this age-old German land. The USSR acquired the eastern part of Poland, its former imperial territory, which became Western Ukraine and Western Belarus. On the Soviet side, Molotov was in charge, but he could not bear any comparison with Ribbentrop. Ribbentrop sat at a long table, with numerous aides on either side. Yet he never asked them anything. He seemed to have no need of aides at all. Everyone spoke only with Ribbentrop.

Molotov, on the other hand, constantly had to consult with numerous committees, which is why the meeting dragged on for a whole week. In the press, one often hears the so-called condemnation of the “Munich Betrayal,” when a year earlier, in 1938, Britain and France were forced to return the originally German Sudetenland to Germany, lands that had been hacked off from Germany by Britain and America under the 1919 Treaty of Versailles. The truly treacherous collusion was the 1919 Treaty of Versailles. The Treaty of Versailles summed up the First World War and cut away large territories from Germany, placing it in such unbearable conditions that it could not help but seek to reclaim its original German lands—for which it was immediately accused of occupying its own territory. The most curious thing about the Treaty of Versailles, remaining a diplomatic enigma, is this: Germany was the losing side—that much is clear. Yet Russia—which fought against Germany throughout the entire First World War, suffered the greatest losses—was left out of the division. Soviet Russia was not even invited to Versailles. One gets the impression that the Bolshevik government renounced its share in the Versailles division in exchange for tacit material support of its bloody regime. This was already the pro-Western diplomacy of Trotsky, who was always a man of the West. He came from the West, went to the West, and was always financed by the West.

Stalin never appeared at negotiations. It seemed that he and Hitler already had agreement on what was to be discussed. This was indeed the case. After listening to Ribbentrop’s tape, the whole vileness of the Anglo-American game became clear to Stalin. Stalin only attended Central Committee meetings where the course of the negotiations was briefly discussed. Everyone in the Soviet government fully approved of the negotiations with Germany. Only Beria, the newest member of the Central Committee, seemed to disagree with what he heard. He even dared to make a long speech about Hitler’s allegedly far-reaching intentions. Lazar was very surprised. He had not expected such audacity from a newly minted member of the CC. The last time such a speech had been permitted was when he himself had spoken out against Krupskaya. Lazar, leaning back in his chair, watched Beria. He was impressed by Beria’s aggressiveness, but he knew perfectly well that this man had to be handled very carefully. Lazar realized that he, Lazar, was much younger than Stalin and saw in Beria a very dangerous contender for power.

On August 31, a “Non-Aggression Pact” was signed between the Soviet Union and Germany. A huge banquet was held in the Kremlin for this occasion, attended by Ribbentrop himself. The banquet ended at three in the morning. The masters of the USA and England were in terrible shock. They could not and refused to believe it! The united front of the international, global mafia, whose stronghold had always been in New York and London, was under real threat. A critical moment had arrived. However, the masters of this world were not the sort of people who lacked other, fallback options to achieve their desired goal.

The next day, September 1, 1939, according to the signed treaty, German and Soviet troops simultaneously entered the territory that, under the Treaty of Versailles, had belonged to Poland. German and Soviet troops acted strictly simultaneously, synchronously, and even participated in joint military parades in the occupied territories. However, in response to this joint démarche by the USSR and Germany, on September 3, 1939, England and France declared war only and only on Germany! And that was a shock for Hitler! Hitler knew that the powerful Trotskyist influence in Germany and the USSR would eventually pit the two countries against each other. Therefore, it was important for Hitler to maintain peace with the USSR for as long as possible, because time would allow him to effectively build up his defensive potential. Meanwhile, he thought to secure oil for himself with the help of General Rommel in the Middle East. And Hitler did not at all expect England’s diplomatic response, which effectively drove a wedge between the USSR and Germany. Hitler realized that he had been caught by this grandmaster move and that he could not avoid what he most wanted to avoid — a two-front war. The illogical declaration of war against only one participant in the joint non-aggression pact and partition of Poland was indeed a brilliant move by the British, predetermining the outcome of the war. The second move that predetermined the outcome of the war was drawing America into the war — that was the doing of American secret services. Everything else was only a matter of time.

CHAPTER 5.

In the night of June 22, 1941, Moscow received reports of the German army crossing the Soviet border. At 3:30 a.m., Marshal G.K. Zhukov called Stalin. No one picked up the phone. Then he called Kaganovich. He was there. Zhukov reported the situation and asked for permission to return fire. The answer was silence.
— Do you understand me? — asked Zhukov.
Silence again.
— Do you even understand what’s happening?!
Lazar was in a stupor. He tried to gather his strength to ask at least some question.
— Where is the People’s Commissar of Defense?
— On the line with the Kiev Military District.
— Come to the Kremlin immediately. I’ll contact Stalin.
At 4:30 a.m., all the members of the Politburo gathered. At the end of the table sat Stalin, ashen-faced and with red eyes. He was crushing his pipe in his hand. Everyone was silent and watching Stalin. Finally, Stalin said: “We must immediately call the German Embassy.” He nodded to Molotov, who stood up and left the office. A few minutes later, he returned.
— The embassy said that the German ambassador, Count von Schulenburg, is requesting an immediate meeting to deliver an urgent message.
Stalin nodded again, and Molotov quickly left. He was to receive the German ambassador. All the Politburo members continued sitting in their places, occasionally exchanging glances. It was quiet; each was absorbed in his own thoughts. Everything that was happening seemed unreal, like some nightmare. Only Beria had a triumphant expression. He was smirking at the ceiling. With the dismissal of Litvinov-Wallach, Beria generally knew better than anyone about the true international relations of the USSR with Britain and the USA, which is precisely why he held his post.
Molotov returned. He addressed only Stalin:
— Germany has declared war on us!
Stalin lowered his head. Zhukov stood up. He spoke quickly, as if he had prepared in advance.
“The military experience is on Hitler’s side. The initiative is also on his side. The quality and quantity of troops are also certainly in his favor. He now has the potential of all of Europe in his hands.”
On June 22, Molotov spoke on the radio. His high, monotonous voice was not particularly inspiring. He concluded: “The government appeals to you, citizens of the Soviet Union, to rally your ranks around the glorious Communist Party and the Soviet government. Our cause is just. The enemy will be crushed. Victory will be ours.”
On July 3, Stalin addressed the nation:
— Comrades! Brothers and sisters! Soldiers and sailors! I address you, my friends! — His speech ended with the words: “All the nation’s strength — to the destruction of the enemy. Forward, to victory!” — Here they all remembered the nation.
… The German army was rapidly advancing into the depths of the USSR. Lazar, with his knowledge of Ukraine, was sent to Kiev to oversee transportation, fuel, and other war materials. Lazar did not expect to see what he saw in Ukraine. The residents at the border welcomed the Germans as liberators, “as friends who came to free us from the Soviet yoke.” Reports came that the population provided the Germans with food and lodging. Learning of this situation, Lazar ordered the immediate evacuation of the Jewish population from the border zone along the entire western front. The rest of the population interested Lazar little. Stalin did not object. Lazar understood that Stalin was not against the Jews being evacuated from the front-line zone. Stalin knew perfectly well that in Germany itself, which had been at war with Britain and France since 1939, the Jews were waging a partisan war inside the country, shooting German soldiers in the back, poisoning water systems, and lighting bonfires at night to guide British bombers to their targets. Therefore, Stalin raised no objection to this evacuation of the Jews. In any case, Lazar reasoned, it would be better if the Jews were evacuated to warm Central Asia. All that the Soviet Jewish leadership did in the first days and weeks of the war was to evacuate Jews from the European territory and their own families. Nothing else interested them.
Lazar very much hoped that the Jews would later remember who saved them at the critical moment. However, this did not happen subsequently, and Lazar was greatly distressed by it. Lazar knew that Hitler was well aware of what Soviet Russia really was. The destruction of the Russian people and the transformation of the remaining population into slaves chained to wheelbarrows, which Soviet propaganda would later attribute to Hitler, had already been successfully carried out by the Soviet Jewish dictatorship since 1917. In Soviet Russia there were even no days off, and even children were shot for failing to meet production plans.
Instead of organizing defense, the Jewish leadership of the USSR openly ceased even formal subordination to Stalin and feverishly engaged in evacuating their relatives and Jews in general from the western part of the USSR, where millions of Jews historically lived. They did not calm down until they had resettled all the Jews. When, much later, in the 1970s, the myth of the Holocaust began to emerge, it therefore did not gain currency in the USSR, but only in America, which had no understanding whatsoever of this war. It was precisely thanks to Lazar Kaganovich that the Jewish people suffered casualties only in that part that concerned only German Jews, whom Kaganovich could not help in any way. Hitler, as a result of the open partisan war waged against him by the Jewish population of Germany, as he advanced eastward, began evacuating them to the newly occupied territories of Poland and the USSR. But these were not Soviet Jews. They were displaced German Jews. They were in transit camps, and there never was any order for their extermination. The German Jews were supposed to be resettled on Soviet territory, not exterminated, as is now being retroactively insinuated. Casualties among this part of German Jewry, which ended up displaced to the territories of Poland and the USSR, began when the German forces, under the blows of the recovering Red Army, rolled back. Then the Germans simply had no time for the displaced Jews, who began to die from typhus and hunger. That is the simple story of the Jews in World War II, which in America has been blown up to the assertion that, purportedly, World War II is solely the story of Hitler’s extermination of the Jewish people and nothing else.

All defense efforts were left to drift. In this situation, Stalin completely lost all power. His aides abandoned him. He was entirely deprived of his administrative apparatus. Later, when American Jewry would offer its help, Soviet Jews would come to their senses, realize that not all was lost, that there was someone to stand up for them, and they would regain their former composure. This happened in December 1941, when after Pearl Harbor America officially entered the war. Then American Jews were able, through the so-called Lend-Lease — which ultimately turned out to be a free gift — to flood the USSR with weapons, equipment, ammunition, food, and clothing. In 1972, President Nixon forgave the entire 8 billion dollars of Lend-Lease. The USSR did not pay a single cent. In 1941 prices, that sum equals 8 trillion of today’s dollars. It was an astronomical sum, for which one could buy more than one Alaska. The Germans effectively sank American ships heading toward Murmansk, but the Americans set up transport convoys from San Francisco to Vladivostok, and here Germany was powerless.
Taking advantage of the war, Beria, who had always been a Trotskyist, began the de-industrialization of what had been built with such difficulty and sacrifice in the USSR during the 10 years of industrialization. Under cover of the war, Beria’s NKVD even blew up the DneproGES, which in no way increased Germany’s military potential but simply deprived the remaining population of electricity. Beria issued an order that when retreating, the NKVD must burn citizens’ homes and carry out the effective demolition of all industrial facilities. Beria’s NKVD set houses on fire together with the citizens living in them, who then had no choice but to flee to the East. There was just one difference. Jews were evacuated by organized transport, with food and all their personal valuables, while everyone else fled on their own, carrying only what they could in their hands, because their homes had been burned down by Beria’s NKVD. It was not only Germany that waged war against the USSR — Beria and his like-minded comrades also waged war against the USSR and its population. Germany merely occupied the USSR — Beria’s NKVD burned and blew up the USSR. Beria and his Trotskyists needed to create the impression that it was the Germans who brought devastation with them. Nowhere, in no country occupied by the Germans, did anyone think of burning their own homes and blowing up their own industrial potential. When the war ended, all of Europe, except for defeated Germany, returned to their intact homes and factories, and as if nothing had happened went back to their prewar lives; only the population of the western part of the USSR returned again to ruins. Those patriots who truly want to liberate their land will never blow up what was created by such hard labor of the people. Beria did not trouble himself with explanations. He simply said that nothing must fall into the enemy’s hands. Beria had his own objectives. Not for nothing did Lazar have information that Beria had been an English spy since the time of the Civil War, and the death of the 26 Baku Commissars was on his conscience.

Despite the desperate resistance of the city’s defenders, Kiev was taken. Lazar managed to return to Moscow. He did not recognize the capital: Moscow was preparing for defense. But what struck him most was that Stalin was already trying to somehow control the situation. Under his leadership, the State Defense Committee was created, assuming full authority.
By October 1941, with German troops already at the gates of Moscow, Stalin ordered all People’s Commissariats evacuated from the capital to Kuibyshev. All members of the government and their families were commanded to leave Moscow. The entire city, depending on each person’s means, evacuated their relatives. Total anarchy and chaos reigned in the capital. The populace looted whatever the leadership had not managed to plunder and settled scores with their superiors. Lazar immediately evacuated his own. Roza, Maria, and Maya left. He sent his brother Yuri and his beloved family off to Mongolia altogether, far from harm’s way. In just the first two weeks of October, over two million people departed Moscow. His brother Mikhail, as an aviation commissar, was forced to remain. Only Stalin and the most responsible party leaders stayed in the capital. In the decisive days of Moscow’s defense, Stalin took full responsibility and control into his own hands. He addressed the Russian people, emphasizing that they were fighting for their Motherland, their native land. The phrase “Great Patriotic War” appeared, “Motherland.” They remembered Russian patriotism: they recalled Suvorov, Nakhimov, and the glory of Russian arms, which until then no one had even dared mention. Stalin succeeded in stressing the patriotic duty of every Soviet citizen, not merely the defense of communist ideals. Even to Lazar, Stalin now seemed a mighty and purposeful figure, capable of rallying the masses to expel the enemy.
Yet it seemed nothing could stop the Germans. A communiqué from October 14 reported: “During the night of October 14, the situation on the approaches to the capital deteriorated. German forces have superior technical means, and they have broken through our defense in several directions. We lack the means to stop them.”
Along the Leningradskoye Highway, the Germans reached Khimki, where the ring-road automobile highway now lies—nobody opposed them. The capital lay open.
Such a cold autumn and winter had not been seen in Moscow for decades. Snow, cold, freezing rain did their work. If only the Germans had begun their war in early May! They became overextended. Their forward units were at Khimki, while their rear was still a thousand kilometers back in Belorussia. They had carried out the offensive all too successfully. Ammunition ran out, food and fuel too.
“If you stride too widely, you’ll rip your trousers,” goes a Russian proverb. And so it came to pass. On December 6, 1941, Zhukov reported: “Neither we nor the Germans can move because of the weather.”
If only the Germans had known that Moscow was no longer capable of offering any resistance! Yet the Germans fell victim to their own way of thinking. They defended Berlin to the last drop of blood—they expected the same from Moscow. So they halted on the threshold, peering intently through binoculars at the gray silhouettes of hostile houses. They decided to wait until the rear caught up. That was their doom. A savage frost set in, and the rear never arrived; it remained stuck five hundred kilometers away, firmly mired. Meanwhile, partisans began quietly harassing the Germans. On December 8, 1941, Roosevelt set up Pearl Harbor, and America quickly entered the war. Torrents of weaponry, ammunition, equipment, food, and clothing poured into the USSR. By the time the Germans thawed out in spring, nothing was left of the Moscow-region grouping. They had missed their historic chance. Something had failed at their top level. A lack of mutual understanding, or perhaps they too had their own sabotage.
What was the cause of the German “Blitzkrieg’s” failure? Only one answer—its undoubted initial success. Imagine: in the first two weeks, almost the entire Soviet army—4 million men—surrendered to the Germans as prisoners; and if you count July, then by August 1941 almost the entire 5-million-strong Soviet army had surrendered. The Russians capitulated almost to a man. This is not something people like to recall, but it is a fact. It was the phenomenal success of the “Blitzkrieg” and Operation “Barbarossa.” You do not understand the consequences: suppose you are a commander, and suddenly you find yourself with 5 million prisoners on your hands, who must be guarded, housed, and fed. Even Hitler did not foresee this. In contrast to later slander and calumny, German soldiers, unlike the American army, fought honestly and did not resort to methods contrary to the Geneva Convention. They did not exterminate prisoners; they undertook to organize concentration camps and honestly maintain and feed them. They had no other way. Suppose they had decided to destroy all 5 million Russian prisoners—something they never even contemplated. That could only be done urgently and on the spot. Practically, it could only be carried out at the moment of capture. Even so, they would have had to halt all offensive operations and employ the entire army for that task. You cannot destroy five million people in a few days. It would take months, if not years. The German command never entertained such a thought. An army cannot be used to annihilate a civilian population—that demoralizes the army. The only army to practice that in the ancient world was the Jewish one, and in the present day—the American one. Why? That is another question.
Thus, thanks to the “Blitzkrieg’s” success, a month and a half after its launch and triumph, the Germans found themselves with five million prisoners of war on their hands, who had to be quartered, guarded, and fed; and to do that, an entire infrastructure had to be created from scratch in the occupied territory, because Beria’s Jewish NKVD had destroyed everything during the retreat. The deindustrialization of Russia was the main task of the hidden Trotskyites of the NKVD, and they instantly seized the convenient moment. As a result of this overwhelming burden that fell on them, the needs of the German general offensive came to nothing. The Germans were confronted with the necessity not only of guarding and feeding 5 million prisoners of war, but also the entire population of the occupied territories, since Beria’s NKVD had destroyed or removed everything, including provisions and the entire harvest. And the Germans had to bring in literally everything from Germany itself. The initiative of the German offensive therefore bogged down and passed to the Russian Jews, whom American Jews began supplying from Murmansk and Vladivostok with everything that even the American army did not have. The Germans’ moral standing was also at a loss, since they were on foreign soil, and the longer they remained, the fewer chances they had. The “Blitzkrieg” was their only chance, and they lost it by acquiring that 5-million-strong horde of prisoners. Imagine if the Russians had simply retreated? Then they would not have created for the Germans a problem that destroyed all German plans.

The war was escalating. After the Battle of Stalingrad, Lazar went to see what was left of the city. What he saw exceeded all his expectations. The Soviet army had captured enormous trophies, including tanks, planes, and artillery. For the needs of the front, Lazar confiscated all means of transport from the population, down to the horses. The railways were filled with trains carrying the spoils of war to the rear.
During the war years, Lazar’s career advancement continued as before. He was a member of the State Defense Committee and simultaneously a member of the Military Council of the North Caucasus and Transcaucasian Fronts. On every front to which he was dispatched, Kaganovich used bloody measures—up to and including execution—to enforce discipline.
In February 1944, Stalin decided to solemnly commemorate the twenty-sixth anniversary of the Red Army at the palace. A grandiose banquet was held, attended not only by prominent Soviet military commanders but also by foreign guests. Molotov was appointed host; he stood under a huge crystal chandelier and greeted everyone. In no less than a dozen banquet halls, mountains of black caviar, sturgeon, roasts, game, ice cream, and champagne were piled up. Nothing of the kind had been seen in the Kremlin for a decade. In the great hall, there was dancing, and famous singers like Kozlovsky and others performed.
After the lavish dinner, a concert took place. Toasts were proposed in various languages, but mainly in Russian and English, as the main theme was Russian-Anglo-American friendship. The American Ambassador, Averell Harriman, himself a major banker, wore a long double-breasted suit. The British Ambassador, Sir Archibald Clark Kerr, was in a tailcoat. On the Soviet side, the official representative was Deputy Foreign Minister Andrei Vyshinsky, who was in the uniform of a Soviet diplomat.
Lazar was dressed in a military tunic of extended length, which conveniently concealed his stoutness. Lazar had gained weight during the war years, while everyone else, on the contrary, had grown thinner. Lazar’s mustache had grown and was now the size of Stalin’s. Unexpectedly even to himself, he drank a great deal of vodka and became talkative. Foreigners gathered around him, and Lazar did not want to miss such an opportunity.
“Compared to the assistance the USSR rendered the Allies, drawing the main might of the German army upon itself, your aid to the Red Army is nothing. The only thing required of the Allies is to fulfill their obligations in a timely manner! The Soviet Union bears the entire burden of the war on its shoulders. Your aid plays no decisive role.”
Lazar got carried away; he could not stop and addressed the foreign newspaper correspondents surrounding him:
“You don’t understand,” he said to the reporters clustered around him. “Do you think that Allied aid helped us drive the Germans back from Moscow? Nothing could be further from the truth. Deliveries from the USA and England were slow. We received only two percent of what was planned for what we needed at the moment of the decisive battle for Moscow. We were on our own, and we won that battle ourselves. This demonstrates the strength of the Russian people.”
Mikhail approached him from behind and tugged at his sleeve. Lazar shook him off and pointed an unsteady finger at Ambassador Kerr.
“We must wage war the way I manage my railway. We work in three shifts, around the clock, without interruption. We continue working even under bombs, under shells, in any conditions. We never stop. And you? How do you work? — One shift! Americans and Englishmen work part-time and never forget their rest.”
Clark Kerr protested, trying to explain American strategy and the American campaign in Italy, but Lazar did not listen to him; instead, he returned to figures about the total number of Allied troops and total armaments in England, and declared they were inactive:
“All we need are machines that drive reinforced concrete piles into the ground!” — Lazar beat the wall with his enormous fist.
“Machines that drive reinforced concrete piles into the ground! — That’s all we need. Everything depends on them. We can beat the Germans too, working just one shift. All we need are machines that drive reinforced concrete piles into the ground! This…” — Lazar was already shouting…
Mikhail literally twisted Lazar’s arm behind his back, and although Lazar was stronger, this time he did not resist. A coat was put on him, a hat was shoved onto his head, and he was led out of the hall, while he kept shouting about those machines that drive reinforced concrete piles into the ground…

In October 1944, when Polish Ukraine had been reconquered, Lazar returned to Moscow; however, in 1947, Lazar was again sent to Ukraine. In a short time, Lazar instantly organized 504 collective farms in Western Ukraine, and over the next 10 months, another 1,150. Lazar’s assignment to Ukraine was connected to the nationalism he had always successfully combated. As a Jew, Lazar was merciless toward Ukrainian nationalists, which is why he was always dispatched to Ukraine to suppress resistance. It was not for nothing that he was nicknamed the “Iron Commissar.” Now Lazar was also Deputy Chairman of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR.
After the victory at Stalingrad, the panic within the government subsided somewhat. Churchill’s recognition of the USSR’s interests in Eastern Europe was a guarantee for the Trotskyists that they would now extend their influence into this part of Eastern Europe as well. Lavrentiy Beria’s people were already rubbing their hands.

On December 21, 1944, Stalin turned sixty-five. For the last five years, his birthdays had not been mentioned at all in the Soviet press and were not publicly celebrated. Everyone knew that Stalin was not getting any younger. Yet this jubilee raised the question of his possible death. From somewhere, the question arose: “Who would be Stalin’s successor?” Many possible candidates were being floated: Molotov and Mikoyan; A. S. Shcherbakov, secretary of the Moscow Party Committee and head of the propaganda department; Marshal Zhukov; the mere forty-four-year-old Malenkov; forty-five-year-old Andrei Zhdanov, the former Leningrad secretary. And, naturally, the main contenders from the hidden Trotskyist mafia: Beria, Kaganovich, and a new man—Andrei Vyshinsky, who was being pushed especially hard for General Secretary. Vyshinsky was the country’s chief prosecutor. So the posts in the punitive organs and foreign affairs never slipped from the influence of the hidden Trotskyists, except in the case of Yezhov, which cost them dearly.
Lazarus knew that he had to wait for the end of the war, until both the military and political dust had settled.

The war ended. Rumors came of the American president’s death. But for Lazarus, this meant little. In fact, he knew very little about foreign leaders at all. Lazarus was a specialist in internal affairs. At the Yalta conference there were Stalin, Molotov, Vyshinsky, Gromyko, Maisky. Lazarus was not invited.
“Besides that,” said Molotov, “who needs to meet with two aged men? (Churchill and Roosevelt). We already know what we will get before we even sit down at the negotiating table. They have no other choice. In any case, they won’t object.”
The Red Army’s victory unfurled an iron curtain across the middle of Europe. The most interesting thing is that it was not Stalin who lowered this curtain, but Churchill and Roosevelt. At Yalta, Churchill and Roosevelt deliberately handed over Eastern Europe. They knew perfectly well that behind this curtain, people loyal to them would do whatever was necessary, and the consequences would be blamed on Stalin. “Red terror” also came to Eastern Europe. Darkness fell over it, and rivers of blood began to flow from behind closed doors. Stalin had no idea what was going on in Eastern Europe. Moscow’s foreign affairs specialists interpreted the situation for him in the required terms. All the leaders of the new Eastern Europe were tested and tried Trotskyists, trained in Moscow’s internationalist schools. All of them were Jews: in Hungary—Jenő Varga and Mátyás Rákosi (Rosenkrantz); in Czechoslovakia—Slánský, Geminder, and Reicin; in Romania, the absolute dictator Ana Pauker and her deputy Iosef Kishinevsky; in Poland, Jakub Berman; East Germany was directly run by the occupation government; Yugoslavia was led by Moša Pijade—Josip Broz Tito was also a Jew, but at the time he was just a fledgling pupil of Moša Pijade. In Eastern Europe, the very same people who, after the revolution, carried out mass genocide against the population of Russia, after the Second World War did the very same thing in Eastern Europe.

Inside the country, the Communist Party had once again to confront the prewar internal problems in the party and with its above- and below-the-surface currents.
Compared with wartime, the leadership of the state had also changed. Commissariats were no longer set up to solve each separate problem, when the number of people’s commissars had been increased to a great multitude. Now fourteen “oligarchs” ran everything: Stalin, Kaganovich, Molotov, Beria, Malenkov, Bulganin, Voroshilov, Khrushchev, Andreyev, Mikoyan, Shvernik, Voznesensky, Zhdanov, and Kosygin. They made up the Politburo.

Lazarus felt that the entire life of the great state passed only through him. However, sometimes
lightning strikes

Lazar felt he could not show his emotions. He had to remain steadfast. When he was alone, he couldn’t stay within four walls. He went outside, where there should be people, and the bright sun would help keep his feelings in check. He needed to breathe. He needed to walk the streets, even if it wasn’t permitted. It was Sunday, and the streets were almost deserted. Pulling his wide-brimmed white cap low over his eyes and bowing his head, he slowly wandered the empty streets. He walked along Bogdan Khmelnitsky Street; when he reached the corner of Razin Street and Nogin Square, he turned toward Rybny Lane—the place where he had first lived after moving to Moscow. Hands thrust into his pockets, he suddenly felt a piece of paper in one of them. It was a white envelope with his name written in achingly familiar handwriting. Had Mikhail slipped this envelope into his pocket unnoticed? Puzzled, he turned the envelope over in his hands. Judging by the date, the letter had been written a week earlier, right after Uncle Lyovik’s death. Below the date was the word “Philadelphia.” Though unsigned, there was no doubt: the letter was from Morris! He had written it in Yiddish. At last, he unfolded the sheet of paper and began to read:

“Yitgadel veyitkadash shemei raba be’alma di v’ra chir’utei, veyamlikh malkhutei bechayeichon uv’yomeichon uv’chayei d’chol beit Yisrael, ba’agala uvizman kariv, v’imru: amen.”

There was no signature, but he recognized the handwriting at once—it was Morris’s hand. It was a Jewish prayer. Lazar read the few lines over and over. Something familiar, almost forgotten, resounded in them. He looked up at the sky. Then he closed his eyes, but the bright summer sun made them water. And suddenly, word for word, he himself recalled that old Jewish prayer glorifying Israel.

“Lord. May Your name be sanctified. And may His kingdom come, even in our days, in our lifetime and in the life of all Israel. Amen.
And may Your name be sanctified, again and again. And let the Lord’s name be sanctified, blessed, exalted, glorified, though He is beyond all praises, songs, and adorations we can utter, Amen.
For us and for all Israel, may the promise of peace and the promise of life be fulfilled. Amen.
May He who makes peace in the heavens bring it down upon us, upon all Israel, upon the whole world. Amen.
May the Source of peace send it to all who mourn and comfort all in their grief. Amen.”

He repeated it again and again with rapture. It was as though a light shone upon him—the long-heard words of his native Jewish speech now sounded so clear! They brought a lightness to his soul…

It was part of the “Kaddish” prayer, from “The Gates of Repentance” in the “Kol Nidrei” prayer for the Jewish holiday of Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jews.

Lazar no longer looked at the lines. The words came back to him, words that shone—words he had cast aside, that for decades had meant little to him. But Uncle Lyovik had died, and Lazar’s lips trembled as they stubbornly repeated:
“May the Source of peace send it to all who mourn and comfort all in their grief.”

He did not return home until the afternoon. Maria and Maya had already left. They were probably walking in the park with Polina Zhemchuzhina and the children. On Sundays they often spent time together. The husbands were constantly busy with work and had almost no chance to pay attention to their families. Next to the telephone lay a note: “Stalin called from the nearby dacha.” Lazar dialed the number. On the other end of the line, Stalin picked up at once.

“Comrade Kaganovich,” he said in his usual manner, “I’ve been calling you all morning about an urgent matter that concerns you personally.”
Stalin stressed those last words. Lazar listened carefully. He waited. Stalin would tell him what it was about.

“A curious document has come into my hands, in which Mikhail Moiseevich Kaganovich is accused of being a German agent, authorized to become vice-president of a fascist government after the Hitlerite occupation of the country.”

At that, Lazar could not contain himself.
“What?!” Lazar exploded, shouting at the top of his voice.
At that moment, Stalin must have pulled the receiver away from his ear. But Lazar didn’t even think to apologize. He simply could not believe what he had heard.

“Do you need me to repeat what I just said, comrade?”
“No, there’s no need. I heard everything clearly.” Lazar’s voice went limp. He was almost hoarse. “I heard everything clearly.”

Stalin continued. His voice became friendly. He seemed to be encouraging him, saying he would help sort out what had been happening without Lazar’s knowledge.

“I’ve tasked Comrade Mikoyan with looking into this matter. As I understand it, Mikhail Moiseevich deliberately proposed building an aircraft plant in Ukraine near the border so that the Germans could more easily seize it and use it for their own purposes. From what I can tell, that is the main accusation.”

Lazar was simply devastated. That was the last thing he had expected to hear. He had always prided himself on his ability to foresee the unexpected, but this situation had completely unhinged him. After all, he had parted from his brother only a few hours ago, and nothing in Mikhail’s behavior had given cause to suspect that such a calamity had befallen him.

“Comrade Stalin, does Mikhail know about this?”
“Not yet. We decided to inform you first. Only Anastas knows because I assigned him to gather all the materials.”
He paused.
“I have only one question, Comrade Kaganovich. Your opinion is very important.”
“I’m listening, Comrade Stalin.”
“We must decide whether we have enough data to arrest Mikhail. Usually, in such cases, this would be enough.”

Lazar did not hesitate for a second. He could give no other answer. He understood that his own fate was now at stake.

“Well, then. If it must be so, arrest him.”
“As you wish, Comrade Kaganovich, as you wish.”

Lazar hung up the receiver and began pacing nervously around the apartment. Uncle Lyovik’s death receded far into the background, as if it had happened many years ago. Yes, trouble never comes alone. It seemed as though everything was happening in some kind of nightmare. How had he let this happen? He should have known! It was part of his job, part of the established system. Finally, he stopped and sank into a deep armchair in the living room. Or maybe it was all untrue? Perhaps it was someone’s intrigue. Maybe someone had been very eager to see the crash of the “Kaganovich Locomotive,” as Bulganin once joked. In his mind, Lazar began going through the Politburo members: Beria — yes, Mikoyan — no, Bulganin — no, Zhdanov — yes, Khrushchev — no. Suddenly he stopped.
He couldn’t latch onto anything. He had to think everything through carefully and weigh it all. Panic was not an option. If someone had set out to get rid of Lazar Kaganovich, they could have resorted to other, more effective means and done without the “story” involving Mikhail. What if everything Mikhail was accused of was true? It looked like the truth. Mikhail had traveled abroad often. He even had a meeting with high-ranking officials from Hitler’s Air Ministry soon after the signing of the Non-Aggression Pact. It was no secret that, in meeting many Germans, he struck up friendships with a number of them. On top of that, everyone knew that Mikhail spoke German quite well. The more Lazar thought about it, the more logical the accusation seemed. Mikhail had always been a careerist and, apparently, had overdone it.
When he returned from the USA, he stopped valuing the people around him.
Only much later did the true results of Mikhail’s trip to the USA become known. To anyone who would listen, Mikhail boasted that he was expecting American military secrets from “one American.” In reality, Washington was feeding him false information about American military capabilities and using him as a conduit of disinformation to the Kremlin. That was typical of Mikhail. He was never capable of international, or even domestic, intrigue.

Lazar fell into thought: why had he always pushed and thrust his brother forward? Did he, Lazar, bear any responsibility for what happened to Mikhail? No, the blame lay entirely with Mikhail himself. Yet it was Lazar who had convinced Stalin to entrust Mikhail with a more responsible post. Everything else was his own doing. Lazar shook his head. Clearly, Mikhail had always been capable of foolishness, but this was the peak of his folly. Lazar leaned back in his chair and began analyzing the situation again. He understood that he had distanced himself from his brother too quickly, trying to whitewash himself. He also knew perfectly well that the order for Mikhail Kaganovich’s arrest had already been issued. Most likely, he would be held not in the Lubyanka’s basements like an ordinary criminal, but in a special room on the second floor, with windows facing the courtyard. Of course, the case would be kept secret—it would not look good if people learned that the Commissar of the Aviation Industry was a German agent, especially when Russia had lost more than twenty million victims in the war with Germany.
He also thought he ought to speak with Mikoyan. But he had to be careful not to be accused of attempting to influence Mikoyan—and thereby the course of the case. Lazar dialed Mikoyan’s home number. Unlike other Politburo members, Anastas Mikoyan spent Sundays at home with his family. Lazar had always marveled at how he managed that. But the conversation clarified nothing: Mikoyan had not yet reviewed the documents. He only confirmed that Stalin had tasked him with looking into the matter and ordered everything kept secret. Mikoyan invited Lazar to the hearing on the case, scheduled for Tuesday. That was truly a friendly gesture. Lazar realized that Stalin had deliberately chosen Mikoyan to oversee this case, since Mikoyan and Mikhail had been friends since their time in Nizhny Novgorod. Stalin’s selection of Mikoyan was already the maximum that could be done for Mikhail. Mikoyan was indeed a gentleman, and no one could have been more favorable to Mikhail than Mikoyan.
Evening was approaching. Soon Maria and Maya would return. Mikhail had most likely already been arrested. Now he should expect a call from Anya, Mikhail’s wife. To avoid explanations, it would be best for him to leave and spend the night in his Kremlin office. He left a note for his wife, though it was unnecessary: Maria was already accustomed to her husband’s absence on Sunday evenings. He turned out to be right about his brother’s wife. Anya came to them that evening and wept to Maria. But Maria could do nothing to help. She knew nothing could be changed once her husband had made a decision. The only thing she could do was pass a note from Anya to her husband. Late in the evening, one of Lazar’s assistants delivered that note to his office. Lazar had never corresponded with Anya before, so at first he didn’t understand who the letter was from. Anya pleaded with him to save her own brother. Her letter ended with the words: “He is a son of Moses just as you are.”
Lazar studied the words intently: “son,” “brother,” and “Moses,” as if seeing them for the first time. Then he took out Morris’s letter and laid the two messages side by side. He shifted his gaze from one to the other. It seemed incredible: two letters in one day, two human destinies—one already dead, the other’s death merely waiting. Lazar reached for paper. He would answer Anya, and through her—Morris. He wrote only one sentence: “I have only one brother—Joseph Stalin. And forget the voice of blood.” A shiver crept down his spine. He rose from his chair and handed his letter to his secretary to be sent to Anya by courier. On the secretary’s desk he saw a note from Mikhail, simply asking for the charges to be explained. Lazar knew that any move he made would be known to Stalin—he must not meet with his brother. Now he could only wait and listen to conversations to understand whether attitudes toward him had changed. That alone worried him. Of course, news of this event soon spread in hushed tones through the Kremlin corridors. Many believed the accusation had not been fabricated but had a real basis. Even Beria, who was not liked by Politburo members, made no accusation against Mikhail. Everyone already considered Mikhail “buried.” Lazar could no longer change anything, and any attempt to ease his brother’s fate would only harm him.
He slept in his Kremlin office on the green leather sofa. The following day, he had to go to Lubyanka, where Mikoyan had “invited” him. Lazar decided not to return home for the time being, to avoid conversations with Maria or, worse, explanations with Anya.
On Tuesday morning, at around ten o’clock, some six people gathered in Mikoyan’s office. Anastas sat behind an enormous desk and was himself almost invisible. He was a short, thin man who seemed to disappear in that huge office. Mikoyan wore a dark suit and dark tie, which suited his swarthy complexion and heavy black mustache very well. He was coldly studying the case, but his large brown eyes were gentle and without prejudice. Lazar immediately sensed that Mikoyan hated his role in this matter, but he was determined to hear everyone out calmly and judiciously.
Mikhail sat against the wall in a comfortable leather chair. It seemed as though he was not the central figure but a casual observer. To Mikoyan’s right, behind the huge desk, sat a stenographer. Everything said was being recorded. By the door stood a state security officer assigned to Mikhail. Next to him, on a chair, was a short man in a dark suit whom Lazar recognized as an employee from the OGPU translation department, fluent in German. The sixth was Mikoyan’s secretary, a gray-haired elderly man who had come with him from Armenia, and of whom it was said that he had accompanied Lenin when he returned from Finland to Petrograd. He handed his boss a weighty bundle of papers, and from his seat Lazar could see that many of the documents were in German. Hence the need for a translator. Judging by the thickness of the case file, Lazar immediately realized that more than one person was involved in the accusation. When Lazar entered the office, Mikoyan nodded in greeting and again immersed himself in reading the papers. Lazar cast a quick glance at his brother. It was noticeable that Mikhail was extremely nervous. He smoked constantly, lighting one cigarette after another. His face was pale, and his eyes expressed animal fear. He looked at his brother and seemed to want to say something. Lazar turned his back to him and stared out the window that faced the inner courtyard. For a while he watched the “black Marias” in the courtyard. During the meeting, Lazar continued to stand in that pose, looking at no one, only listening to the voices. He heard Mikhail’s explanations about the construction of an aircraft plant near the border and winced. Could anyone really believe in the seriousness of such accusations? But the file contained testimony from German employees, including German foremen at the airfield construction. One of them even claimed that he had objected to the construction but was replaced by Mikhail with someone else. Lazar understood that airfields near the border had been built in view of the then-planned Soviet attack on Germany, but now one could not even hint at that.
Then came the assertion that Mikhail Kaganovich had been considered by the German leadership as the vice-president of a new fascist government of Russia. Lazar did not believe this, but the data was confirmed and signed by a high-ranking German whom Lazar knew personally. Lazar glanced at the translator, and the man nodded. And, most importantly, there was no reason for fabrication. Lazar turned toward his brother. He wanted to ask him personally whether all this was true, but he saw only mortal terror on Mikhail’s face. So Lazar again stared out the window. Mikoyan continued reading out the incriminating documents. This went on for about twenty minutes. Then silence fell. Lazar heard someone rise. He made out Mikhail’s whisper, saying something into Mikoyan’s ear—he was asking permission to go to the toilet. The washroom could be accessed directly from Mikoyan’s office. Mikhail explained that he had severe stomach cramps.
“Yes, of course,” said Mikoyan.
Lazar sensed that Mikhail had stopped behind him. He heard his voice, faint and full of entreaty:
“My brother, you cannot allow this to happen to me. It is wrong for us, for our family, for our country. We are kin. We shared the same swaddling clothes. Don’t do this! Don’t!”
Mikhail was sobbing. Lazar turned sharply and looked into his face. His eyes were red, just like when he had come to announce Uncle Lyovik’s death. Yes, this was his older brother—the one who had never had time for Lazar, who had simply stuffed Morris’s letter into Lazar’s pocket without having the courage to tell him everything himself. Now he was begging for salvation. A pitiful and worthless man! Lazar had always despised weakness. He looked into Mikhail’s eyes. In them was frozen the terror of death.
Lazar carefully slipped his hand into his right pocket and, shielded by his brother’s figure, unseen by the others, silently dropped a heavy object into Mikhail’s pocket. He nodded to his brother. This was the only right solution, his eyes said. Lazar turned back to the window. He heard the door close behind Mikhail. Then everyone in the office heard the sound of water flushing in the cistern, and suddenly a gunshot rang out! The case was closed.
The suicide of Mikhail Kaganovich was hushed up. He simply disappeared, as if he had never existed. Lazar never even saw Anya and the children again: they left Moscow right after the funeral, which Lazar did not attend. Yuri also did not go to the funeral, citing a high fever. Only Roza went to the funeral. But it no longer mattered. Lazar had demonstrated to everyone his loyalty to the Party and government by renouncing his traitorous brother. Now he could be confident that he had further solidified his position. To complete his power, he needed to take a few more steps, and he knew perfectly well in which direction to go. The members of the Politburo understood this too, and if they knew, then Stalin could guess as well. One thing was absolutely clear to Lazar. He could now read Stalin like a book. He understood what that man was thinking and what he wanted. The important thing was to steer his thoughts and desires into the right channel. He had to take advantage of the post-war devastation, before the ruling echelon had re-established iron order. He had once before consolidated his own and Stalin’s power after Lenin’s death. Twenty years later, the situation might repeat itself, but on a different level. Stalin intended to shield the country from the pernicious influence of the West and the international mafia, and to arrange a normal and happy life for the people. Therefore, inside the country, Stalin set about dealing with the Jews, whose dominance was obvious.
Lazar knew that Stalin trusted no churches except the Russian one. Muslims and other Christians were regarded by him as people of a different race and, as he put it, were “centrifugal elements” and therefore harmful. As for the Jews, it made no difference whether they were believers or not—Lazar himself knew better than Stalin that Jews were atheists only in relation to other religions, but not to their own.

Lazar sat behind his enormous desk in the Kremlin. Trust in him had been restored, and mountains of paper once again began to pile up before him. They lay in front of him, and he did not know where to start. The solution came when his sister Rosa appeared in the doorway — the sister he had not seen since that August when the “problems” with Mikhail began.

Lazar was shocked by her reaction. She had not expected it herself, apparently. She had always agreed with her brother in everything; after their father Moses had died, he had taken her entirely under his wing. Without him, she would never have risen to where she was now. For Rosa, Lazar had given her a father — two fathers — himself and Stalin. She tried with all her might never to contradict Lazar. She was torn between duty and her own sense of what was wrong. Lazar had entered her life at her most vulnerable time. But now she had grown up and was no longer the naive, inexperienced girl. She was now a woman with responsibility, the companion of the leader of a vast state.

Rosa gathered all her courage to face her fearsome brother. She would be straightforward. She could not remain silent.

Rosa did not even greet him.

“How could you do this?!”

Lazar immediately caught her mood. Very well, he would answer a question with a question. That tactic was always good.

“Do what?”

“Don’t pretend. You killed Mikhail! For what?”

“Did I pull the trigger?”

“You made him pull the trigger.”

He waved her off, meaning to fob her off.

“Don’t talk nonsense.”

“Mikhail is your own brother. He shares your blood. Oh, no, don’t talk to me about Stalin. I know what you wrote to Anya. It’s disgusting. How could you? She thinks you’re a monster who hated all of humanity.”

“I never professed love for all of humanity.”

“Not even for your own people?!”

She began to pace the office in agitation, gesturing desperately.

“Not even for people of the same blood? Remember where your roots are. Where is your decency? Lord, Lazar, whom do you serve? We aren’t talking about scraps of paper, after all! We’re talking about your blood, your family, your people! You’re a Jew, Lazar!”

At these words, Lazar slammed his fist hard on the desk. The whole office shuddered. Lazar’s eyes flashed lightning. His voice thundered!

“Jews? Jews? F— your mother! To hell with them! Stop thinking with your arse! Jews! All they do is sit and grab, and grab. They don’t ask questions. Just like our father. And these people have the right to decide my fate? Never! Never will that happen! Why on earth should I live in constant fear? Fear is vulnerability, ruin. No, Rosa, and don’t speak to me about my religion. Do I need to remind you what I do? Do I need to remind you that ‘religion is a relic of the past and opium for the people’? Only one thing in life matters to me — to survive. For that, I will fight my family, their religion, even my own homeland. And don’t say anything to me about it. You yourself survived because I helped you, and Mikhail didn’t survive because… because… I had to.” Lazar paused.

“I was afraid not to do it.”

Lazar was breathing heavily, and Rosa stared at him in astonishment. She could not believe what she had heard. For the first time, she felt that her brother had been truly frank with her. She waited until he had calmed down a little.

“Do you really believe that?”

Lazar smiled. He had already recovered. Coming closer to Rosa, he embraced her. He had never done that before.

“Do you remember what our mother used to say? I remember it very well. She said: ‘Lazar, every story has three sides: your side, my side, and the truth. And no one will ever know that truth.’”

He tried to cheer her up. Squeezing her shoulders, he switched to a whisper:

“You know. There is not a shred of truth in the lies told about me.” — Lazar tried to amuse her, to lift her mood. His voice dropped conspiratorially:

“We have a great deal to do, Rosa, a very great deal. And I need you. We all need you, far more than you can possibly imagine. We’ll see each other this evening at supper and we’ll talk. All right? We all need you.”

When she had left, he returned to his desk. He picked up a sheet from the folder of urgent matters and began to study it. It was a document about deportation to Siberia. The accused were an elderly Jew and his wife. Lazar dipped his pen in ink and paused for a second, then signed the paper with confidence. To survive — that was the key word. The fifty-five-year-old bureaucrat knew how to survive.

Lazar continued to maintain contact with Rosa. He would look after her, protect her, and when the opportune moment came, she must help him. He knew that such a moment would come. What he had in mind was very important. That was why Rosa had to be under his constant, watchful control.

Time passed. By the end of the war, Stalin’s personal power had greatly increased, and Lazar knew that precisely now, after the victory in the immense war, Stalin could do anything. To cross him now was more dangerous than ever. However, Molotov, Bulganin, and Khrushchev were of one mind with Lazar. Even the young Malenkov had stopped indulging every Stalinist whim. Only Beria pushed himself forward with his sycophancy, especially in Stalin’s presence. But behind his back they said of Beria what he really was—a notorious Moscow womanizer and pimp. Why did Stalin do nothing to eliminate this repulsive monster? Could he not?

Stalin did everything possible to restore and strengthen the Soviet state. By March 1947, Stalin had set many things in order. He worked long and intensely. Often he stayed overnight in his working study in the Kremlin, where he both worked and slept. It was a huge room with portraits of Marx, Engels, Lenin, and, of course, Stalin himself. There was also a portrait of Alexander Nevsky in the study.
All of Stalin’s secretaries were constantly at work. They took dictation and prepared reports until late into the night. It seemed this man did not know what fatigue was. He had lunch around three in the afternoon and, until ten in the evening—his dinner time—limited himself to a cup of green tea. During lunch, Stalin had the habit of inviting members of the Politburo and the General Staff and discussing current state and political affairs with them, so lunch usually stretched for about three hours.
Stalin ate well, but drank very little. Only at banquets did he allow himself to drink more.
Everyone else followed Stalin’s regime. The working day of his close associates began at 11 a.m. and continued past midnight. The reception hours of many leaders were from 11 p.m. to one in the morning, because Stalin could call at any time, and one had to be at one’s post. No one had days off.

One of the tense regions of the huge country was Ukraine. For the last several years, Nikita Khrushchev had been there. Stalin was beginning to distrust him.
“I don’t trust him,” he told Lazar. “Something about him I don’t like. He always looks past you when he speaks. There’s nothing serious against him, but he constantly fawns: ‘Yes, comrade. No, comrade.’ I don’t think he does it on purpose, of course.”
“In that case, we should simply remove him from his post,” Lazar quickly came up with. “It should have been done long ago,” Lazar added for greater persuasiveness. “We have our hands full.” Stalin’s eyebrows rose.

Lazar Kaganovich was appointed First Secretary of Ukraine. “He will be the true successor in the country!” declared the newspaper The New York Times, which Lazar regarded as his compass. He also liked being called “the iron commissar” in The New York Times. Besides everything else, Lazar was now also Deputy Chairman of the USSR Council of Ministers. He had the right to live in luxury. He was given a large apartment at 26 Kutuzovsky Prospekt, an eight-storey building with a view of the Moskva River, where Brezhnev later lived. It was the largest apartment he had ever lived in. A wide corridor from the huge entrance hall led to the living room. Beyond were two spacious bedrooms. In the living room there was a comfortable sofa, soft armchairs, a piano, a large radio receiver, and in the very center lay a beautiful Persian carpet. Against the wall stood a massive buffet, and there were several bookcases filled with books, some in French, German, and English, although Lazar could not read them. They were simply placed there for him. In addition to the luxurious apartment, Lazar Kaganovich was given a dacha in Uspenskoye, west of Moscow. It was tastefully furnished with the latest technology: a Swedish refrigerator, an Italian toaster, and an English radio. His Kremlin office was paneled in wood, the floor covered with a soft carpet, and the desk covered with green velvet. Becoming First Secretary of Ukraine, Kaganovich also occupied a large and comfortable apartment on the top floor of a new building in the best district of Kyiv. In Ukraine, Lazar Kaganovich, as always, concentrated on two problems: agriculture and nationalism.
Lazar immediately reorganized agriculture in his own way. A peculiarity of the weather in Ukraine is the stable drought in late summer. Therefore, if wheat is sown in the spring, it ripens only by autumn and falls under the drought—and there will be no harvest. That is why Ukrainians from time immemorial have sowed winter wheat in early autumn. This wheat overwinters in the soil, and therefore its harvest ripens by mid-summer, that is, before the drought. Moreover, these harvests, thanks to the seeds’ long stay in the ground, are far more abundant.
Lazar ordered that wheat be sown in the spring and winter wheat be abolished. It seems Lazar could not shake off the obsessive thought of starving the Ukrainians yet again. When a well-known scientist advised him not to plant wheat that way, Lazar told him politely: “Keep your damn hands out of damn agriculture.” Lazar stayed in Ukraine only nine months. Everyone literally breathed a sigh of relief when he left. His working style did not change: arrests, dismissals, expulsions. Lazar terrorized the entire local population. Ukrainians forever remembered that postwar time and gave it their own name—“the Black Days.” Truly, Ukraine had no respite. In Ukraine, he was called nothing but “executioner,” “butcher,” or “tormentor.”

However, having left Ukraine, Lazar spread his wings across the whole country. He repressed everyone who fell under his hand, even Jews. Even renowned marshals came under his hot hand. Marshal Vasilevsky, the hero of Stalingrad. Marshal Konev, one of those who took Berlin. Marshal Govorov. Lazar’s broom swept in every Soviet home. And Lazar did not want to be associated with Jews in any way, so he swept up absolutely everyone. It came to the point that Lazar closed one of the oldest synagogues in Kyiv.
At the end of the year he returned to Moscow, leaving behind, as always, nothing but ruins.

The year 1948 was eventful. The USSR blockaded West Berlin, which had become an outpost of American espionage, completely cutting off its communication with the West. However, the USA organized, via three air corridors, an airlift of unprecedented intensity with West Berlin. The USSR could not shoot down their planes. The Americans had already demonstrated that they would not hesitate to drop an atomic bomb. Hiroshima was intended to intimidate the USSR. The “Cold War” began, which for 25 years imperialist circles dreamed of turning into an atomic one.

Exactly at the time when the Bolsheviks in Russia were seizing power, five days before the Bolshevik coup, on November 2, 1917, as World War I was drawing to a close, another epochal event in the history of the Jewish people quietly took place. The Foreign Minister of the British Empire, Lord Balfour, gave Palestine to the Zionist Jews. This was done in the form of the “Balfour Declaration” addressed to Lord Rothschild. Palestine then belonged to the Great Ottoman Turkish Empire. How can one give away something that does not belong to him? — like this:
“Dear Lord Rothschild, I (Lord Balfour) have great pleasure in conveying to you, on behalf of His Majesty’s Government, the following declaration of sympathy with Jewish Zionist aspirations, which has been submitted to, and approved by, the Cabinet: ‘His Majesty’s Government view with favour the establishment in Palestine of a national home for the Jewish people, and will use their best endeavours to facilitate the achievement of this object, it being clearly understood that nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil and religious rights of existing non-Jewish communities in Palestine, or the rights and political status enjoyed by Jews in any other country.’ I would be grateful if you would bring this declaration to the knowledge of the Zionist Federation.” Lord Balfour.

By that time, the international Zionist movement, founded at the end of the 19th century by Theodor Herzl, had become very powerful. They demanded a place for the Jews to establish their own sovereign state. They were offered the state of Uganda in Africa. Many had already agreed, but an aggressive delegation of Zionists from Russia took this as a personal insult and refused to consider any proposal other than Palestine. The British could not cope with the Turkish Empire alone, so they suggested that the Arabs, who lived there, fight alongside British forces against the “Turkish enslavers.” In return, the British promised Palestine to the Arabs. Thus, the British sold the same thing to two different people. One of them would inevitably be deceived. Naturally, the deceived people turned out to be the Arabs. The struggle of the Arabs against the Turks was led by British secret agent Colonel Thomas Edward Shaw, better known by his nickname “Lawrence of Arabia.” Through joint efforts, the Arab-British forces under Colonel Lawrence broke the Turkish army.

The Balfour Declaration shocked the Arabs. They realized that the British had foully deceived them, and they were deprived of their land. Lawrence was also shocked. He sincerely believed in what he himself had promised the Arabs. He rushed to his superiors for explanations. While Lawrence was riding his motorcycle, someone stretched a steel cable at the level of his neck.

Through the efforts of their powerful international organizations and thanks to the support of Jews in various countries, the Zionists firmly seized political power in the USA and the British Empire and used them as their bulldozers. Strictly speaking, the main goal of the First World War was the “Balfour Declaration.” And the main goal of the Second World War was the creation of the State of Israel. This was actually what the communists, in their own language, called the first and second stages of building communist society! Everything else was just a secondary compote, resulting in a “wonderful Jewish tzimmes.”

As in 1917, without attracting much attention, on May 14, 1948, the United Nations officially announced the decision to create two states: an Arab and a Jewish one. The Jewish State of Israel, with the tireless help of the USA and England, subsequently became a superpower itself, while the remnants of a potential Arab state languish in refugee camps.

Andrei Gromyko, as the representative of the USSR at the UN, personally exerted maximum effort to create the State of Israel. President Truman, whose portrait in a Masonic apron hangs in the White House, sent his Secretary of State Dean Acheson to Moscow to meet with Molotov regarding the earliest possible recognition of the State of Israel.

Lazar met with Acheson and tried to at least delay recognition of the State of Israel. “I am a Jew myself,” Lazar said to Acheson, “and I am against it. What good can the creation of a Jewish state in the Middle East bring? The territory is a desert. What will it be – a parasite state? Nothing grows. No oil. No mineral resources. And, most importantly – what to do with millions of Arabs? We don’t understand what we are doing. If the Arab countries don’t like it, we will be left without oil. We in the USSR have enough oil, but you are in a different situation.”

Lazar knew the situation in the USA. He knew that Truman was a hostage and had no other choice. US Secretary of Defense James Forrestal, an outspoken opponent of the creation of the State of Israel, was thrown from the window of a US hospital for high-ranking officials in Washington. The belt of his robe was tightened around his neck beforehand. Before that, Forrestal had been committed to the hospital due to a “nervous breakdown.” “America has its own ‘Kremlin doctors,’” Lazar remarked on this.

The American press reported Forrestal’s suicide, supposedly due to insanity. Lazar, more than anyone, was familiar with all these tricks. What surprised him was how America maintained a positive image in the press, while the USSR was turned into an evil empire.

In the same year, 1948, the UN’s personal envoy, Swedish Prince Bernadotte, who insisted on the parallel creation of an Arab state, was killed by Israelis in the Middle East. In April 1948, Israeli thugs completely massacred the Arab village of Deir Yassin and blew up the King David Hotel, packed with British soldiers. Weapons for the creation of the army of the State of Israel were supplied from Czechoslovakia, which was under the full control of Beria’s agency.

The State of Israel was proclaimed on May 14, 1948. The USA recognized Israel on the same day. It was the synchronized work of one organized force in many countries.

The USSR recognized the state of Israel on the third day. The Israeli ambassador Golda Meir arrived in the USSR. Golda Meir was the closest friend of Molotov’s wife, Polina Zhemchuzhina, with whom she had studied at gymnasium. Soviet Jews gave her a grand reception. They filled the streets of the capital, kept a round-the-clock vigil outside Golda Meir’s hotel, and greeted her every appearance with rapturous ovations. Never before had any head of a foreign power enjoyed such success in the USSR, let alone some mere ambassador. Moscow seethed with joy. Everything else was eclipsed.
Stalin was shocked. All the Jews whose passports listed their nationality as ‘Russian’ were rejoicing in the capital. Stalin now had a chance to see with his own eyes just how many Jews there really were in Moscow. It seemed as if they made up the overwhelming majority of the city’s residents.
Stalin convened an emergency meeting of the Politburo:

• This is what we have achieved by trying to appear a civilized country and giving in to the world’s behind-the-scenes games! This is the gratitude we get from the Jews! Jews still cannot get along normally with other peoples. With very rare exceptions.
  And he glanced toward Kaganovich.
• Jews are always and everywhere a danger. Every Moscow Jew has ties abroad. We are facing the threat of world Zionism!
  Lazar held his gaze. Stalin, as always, waited for a reply. Lazar nodded. Stalin smiled.
  Lazar had already overseen the ‘purges’ of the 1930s. Now he was to take on his own Jews. And what else was he supposed to do, when he was placed squarely before this task? Now he could no longer hide behind meaningless social-democratic and Trotskyite-fascist labels, under which one could pin anyone, even Jesus Christ. To say: ‘I’ve purged everyone, but not my own?’ Of course, Lazar would sabotage, of course, he would classify the Russians themselves as Jews, but he could only do that to a certain extent. He could not put himself in danger.
  Lazar had to dissolve the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee and arrest its leaders, who had been openly working for America and international Zionism, while, incidentally, the ‘Cold War’ was on, and America was planning to use an atomic bomb against the USSR, which the USSR did not yet have. The Jewish Theatre in Moscow had to be closed; it was already effectively subordinate to the Israeli Ministry of Culture. Ministries, party organizations, scientific institutes, and educational institutions were purged of the dominance of Jewish personnel who had open sympathies for America and Israel. Lazar silently begged them: ‘Just don’t be brazen! Don’t ask for trouble! Just sit quietly!’ But they could not sit quietly. At especially important enterprises, a quota had to be introduced, limiting the number of managerial staff of Jewish nationality. Many of the most zealous Jewish activists ended up behind bars.

However, Lazar continued to wait for his moment of triumph.
Stalin set up a special committee to draft a new CPSU program. Lazar was appointed to it. Instead of producing a new CPSU program, this committee, under Lazar’s leadership, created a Presidium consisting of twenty full members and eleven candidate members. According to his plan, this new state governing body would eventually replace the Politburo and weaken Stalin’s leading role. At the same time, Lazar expanded the Secretariat of the Central Committee: instead of five people, ten of the right people were brought in.
Yet none of this brought the desired results. All attempts, under the guise of reforms, to destabilize the state apparatus were nipped in the bud by Stalin. Stalin was growing stronger and stronger. The situation for Lazar was becoming increasingly unfavorable.

Changes were also taking place in the private life of the Kaganovich family. Maya had grown up, become an architect, and lived separately. Maria often visited her. Their daughter’s dacha was not far from their own. During this time, Lazar had even less contact with his wife and daughter. In 1951, his brother Yuri passed away. The news came from Anya, who wrote to Maria that Yuri had died of lung cancer in Nizhny Novgorod. But this news did not touch Lazar at all. He had never been close to Yuri, and had not seen or spoken to Yuri for the past six years or so. He knew that Yuri was a heavy smoker, and at the

In August 1952, Lazar was again gently reminded that he was not taking the Jewish problem seriously enough. Jewish theaters not only in Moscow had to be closed, and the publication of Jewish newspapers and magazines ceased. Arrests of Jews even reached the highest echelons of power. V. M. Molotov’s wife Polina Zhemchuzhina, also known as Peri Semyonovna Karpovskaya, was arrested. Zhemchuzhina was not simply Molotov’s wife, like Kaganovich’s wife – she was active in politics and was a candidate member of the Central Committee of the CPSU at the Eighteenth Party Congress. She was not only a Trotskyite but also a Zionist. It came to light that at one time Golda Meir had been her best friend, and Zhemchuzhina’s own sister lived in Palestine, and they had corresponded until 1939. Her blood brother lived in America. A shadow fell over other major party and state figures as well. Thus, besides Molotov, Voroshilov had a Jewish wife; Beria’s mother was Jewish; Khrushchev’s son-in-law Adzhubei, later editor of Izvestia, was a Jew. Bulganin had been married to a Jewish woman since the revolution, owed his career to her, and sympathized with Israel with all his heart. Arrests also occurred among Lazar’s acquaintances. The arrested Jewish poet Itzik Fefer was a personal friend of Lazar. The arrested writer David Bergelson was a close friend of Polina Zhemchuzhina-Karpovskaya-Molotov. Many arrests were no longer controlled by Lazar. Everything went through Beria. In the person of Beria, Lazar faced a worthy contender. All those arrested did not even try to deny that they were, to one degree or another, working for America and carrying out sabotage inside the USSR. Trotsky was dead – Stalin had taken care of that – but his cause lived on. Neo-Trotskyite internationalists counterattacked. And the Cold War was on, and the Americans were only looking for a pretext to launch a nuclear bombardment of the USSR. The aggression unleashed by the USA against Korea, which bordered the USSR, was a cunning maneuver to draw the USSR into the conflict. Later, such a provocative maneuver would be the Vietnam War.

Lidia Timashuk was merely an X-ray technician in the Kremlin hospital. She honestly wrote a letter to Stalin, in which, without fearing the possible consequences of writing such a letter, signed with her full name, she stated that she had repeatedly observed that the treatment prescribed by high-ranking doctors did not correspond to elementary protocols known to any medical student.

Stalin knew perfectly well that Sverdlov, Lenin, Dzerzhinsky, Menzhinsky, the father and son Gorkys – the Peshkovs, Kuibyshev, Ordzhonikidze had been poisoned, and Frunze was simply deprived of oxygen during an operation. Lenin’s doctor, Levin, was a well-known NKVD poisoner, personally subordinate to Trotsky, and then to Yagoda. When in 1943 the professional NKVD killer General Walter Krivitsky defected and remained in Washington, he stated that the art of poisoning in Yagoda’s NKVD had reached perfection. For example, to poison the inconvenient head of the NKVD Menzhinsky, on orders from Trotskyites all walls where he lived and worked were painted with liquid mercury and also poured under the floor, so he was constantly ill and eventually died prematurely. One should not think that this practice applied only to the top echelon of power. It is also naive to believe that this practice was later ended, or that the USA did not practice it. On the contrary, even more refined and scientific methods have appeared in the arsenal of modern poisoners, for example, radioactivity. President Eisenhower’s rival in the 1952 presidential election, American Senator Taft, died suddenly of thigh cancer – a completely unusual form of cancer. Taft’s staff recalled that a few months before, a certain box appeared next to the senator’s desk; it stood precisely on the side of the affected thigh and disappeared immediately after Taft’s death. In 1966, during an operation in the Kremlin hospital, just as Frunze had been in his time, the brilliant Chief Designer of space and ballistic missiles Sergei Korolev was deprived of oxygen. Korolev was told that he supposedly had rectal cancer and was persuaded to have surgery. Korolev did not leave the operating table alive. Interestingly, Korolev was offered the bloodiest possible operation, which is generally not recommended, and if it is done, it is done in stages. For rectal cancer, there are many other options. For example, it is treated with targeted radiation. For rectal cancer surgery, usually only a light one is preferred: simply bringing the intestine out onto the anterior abdominal wall. In Korolev’s case, they began to pull out the entire rectum together with the pelvic floor and all lymph nodes, which is an extremely bloody, heavy, and hours-long operation. If these operations are performed at all, they are done only with assisted breathing using a ventilator. A person cannot endure this operation on their own. However, the Kremlin professors did not help Korolev with artificial ventilation, citing technical difficulties. The operation was performed without artificial ventilation, and Korolev died right on the operating table from lack of oxygen. In 1978, Bulgarian writer Georgi Markov was killed in London. He was jabbed with an umbrella in a crowd, injecting a capsule of the deadly poison ricin. In that same year 1978, Pope John Paul I, the predecessor of the current Polish Pope John Paul II, was poisoned. The young Pope John Paul I was pope for a very short time.

According to a report by Lydia Timashuk, Minister of State Security Abakumov ordered Ryumin, head of the investigation department, to lose Timashuk’s letter. Abakumov even arrested Ryumin to cover up traces of this letter. This came to Stalin, and he ordered Ryumin to be freed. Moreover, Stalin removed Abakumov himself and appointed Ignatiev as the new minister. At that time, the Trotskyist opposition had already managed to split the unified NKVD into two separate ministries: state security and internal affairs. Stalin ordered Ignatiev to take the investigation of the “case of Kremlin doctors” under his personal control.

In her letter, Lydia Timashuk went further, she specifically named the subversive Kremlin agents as Jewish. A fact is a fact. All the doctors who were noticed in carrying out unconventional methods of treatment were indeed Jewish by nationality. And this fact was impossible to ignore. As fresh examples, the sudden deaths of young Central Committee secretaries Zhdanov and Shcherbakov, who were not even fifty, were cited. The matter was made public. TASS named only the names of the nine most notorious malefactors. The full text of the TASS statement:

“Some time ago, a terrorist group of doctors was uncovered by the security organs, which set as its goal, through wrecking treatment, to shorten the lives of active figures of the Soviet Union.

Among the participants of this terrorist group turned out to be: Professor Vovsi M.S., therapist; Professor Vinogradov V.N., therapist; Professor Kogan M.B., therapist; Professor Kogan B.B., therapist; Professor Yegorov P.I., therapist; Professor Feldman A.I., otolaryngologist; Professor Etinger Ya.G., therapist; Professor Grinshtein A.M., neurologist; Mayorov G.I., therapist.

Documentary data, investigations, conclusions of medical experts and the confessions of the arrested have established that the criminals, being hidden enemies of the people, carried out wrecking treatment of patients and undermined their health.

The investigation established that the participants of the terrorist group, using their position as doctors and abusing the trust of patients, deliberately, villainously undermined the health of the latter, deliberately ignored the data of objective examination of patients, gave them incorrect diagnoses that did not correspond to the actual nature of their illness, and then with incorrect treatment ruined them.

The criminals confessed that, taking advantage of the illness of comrade A.A. Zhdanov, they incorrectly diagnosed his disease, hiding his existing myocardial infarction, prescribed a regimen contraindicated for this serious condition and thereby killed comrade A.A. Zhdanov. The investigation established that the criminals also shortened the life of comrade A.S. Shcherbakov, by incorrectly using strong-acting medicinal agents during his treatment, establishing a harmful regimen and thus bringing him to death.

The criminal doctors tried first of all to undermine the health of Soviet leading military cadres, to incapacitate them and weaken the country’s defense. They tried to incapacitate Marshal Vasilevsky, Marshal Govorov, Marshal Konev, Army General Shtemenko, Admiral Levchenko and others. However, the arrest frustrated their villainous plans, and the criminals did not manage to achieve their goal.

It has been established that all these doctor-murderers, having become monsters of the human race, trampling the sacred banner of science and desecrating the honor of scientific workers, were hired agents of foreign intelligence. Most of the participants of the terrorist group were connected with the international Jewish Zionist organization ‘Joint’, created by American intelligence, ostensibly to provide aid to Jews in other countries. In reality, however, this organization conducts, under the guidance of American intelligence, wide-ranging espionage, terrorist and other subversive activity in a number of countries, including the Soviet Union. The arrested Vovsi stated to the investigation that he received a directive to exterminate the leading cadres of the USSR from the USA from the organization ‘Joint’ through the doctor Shmelovich in Moscow and the well-known Zionist Mikhoels. Other participants of the terrorist group turned out to be long-standing agents of British intelligence. The investigation will be completed in the near future.”

The investigation was not completed, neither in the near future nor ever, due to the poisoning of Stalin himself. Everything said in the communiqué was the honest truth. Stalin never slandered his Trotskyist enemies. Moreover, what was uncovered by the security organs at the end of the 1930s under Yezhov’s leadership was only the tip of the iceberg. The activity of Trotskyist-cosmopolitan elements in the USSR was so disgusting that the Trotskyists and their successors—the neo-Trotskyists—declared Stalin a possessed maniac and blamed on him all the victims of their bloody crimes against the Russian people.

Israel reacted instantly, as always declaring everything antisemitism. A fundamental turning point came in world history, which was not conveyed to the broad masses. Now the main citadel of ‘world revolution’ in the world was not the USSR and not even the USA—this outpost became the new state of Israel. Now what is called world ‘progressive public opinion’ will be the position not of the USSR and not of the USA—it will be the position of the state of Israel.

Israel made it clear to the USSR that it would not tolerate any encroachments towards Jews, regardless of whether the accusations made against them were true or not. A bomb exploded in the USSR embassy in Israel.

Stalin was not a punching bag either and broke off diplomatic relations with Israel. It was incomprehensible to him: only yesterday they had hatched into the world—today they are already dictating to the whole world. But he guessed that he was greatly deceived when the recognition of the state of Israel was quietly and imperceptibly pushed through as an insignificant event, having no importance whatsoever. “There are a hundred embassies of these banana republics in Moscow—what difference does it make if there is one more?” — said his entourage. However, Israel was not being prepared for the function of a banana republic.

One night at two in the morning, Bulganin, Molotov, Voroshilov, and Lazar were leaving Stalin’s dacha. They were discussing the question of whom the Minister of Foreign Affairs should report to: the newly created Presidium or the Central Committee. Stalin had suggested they meet the next morning at nine to settle the matter once and for all. They took advantage of the opportunity given them: to continue the discussion, they all headed to Voroshilov’s dacha in Zhukovka. The spot proved ideal. Voroshilov’s wife and children were not at the dacha at that time; he had let the servants go and dismissed the guards as well. So there was no fear of being overheard.

The host — the hidden Jew Voroshilov — was the first to speak:
“You see what Koba is doing now — the same as Hitler. He’s a rabid anti-Semite! He needs a scapegoat.”
Voroshilov was the only one who still used Stalin’s forty-year-old nickname.
Bulganin supported him. His wife was a doctor, and Bulganin loved to display his ‘medical’ knowledge at every opportunity.
“I think Koba suffers from persecution mania. In conversation he made it clear to me that the three of you are weaving a conspiracy against him.”

Lazar grew wary:
“Me too? He thinks I’m in on it?”
Bulganin nodded:
“He knows you think the Doctors’ Plot is making a horrifying impression abroad.”
“So what? That’s abroad. What about us?”

Molotov paced the room. He was very tired and could not stop worrying about his wife.
“He knows, Lazar. He knows everything.”
Molotov walked to the window and drew the curtain slightly aside. Dawn was breaking.
Bulganin spoke again:
“Stalin is preparing the near-total annihilation of the Central Committee. I know about it, and that is why we must stop him.”
He looked at Lazar.
“You ought to know. Hasn’t Rosa told you anything about it?”

Lazar’s eyes flashed:
“Rosa tells me nothing. She hardly sees him. He no longer shows any interest in her. I’m even afraid for her. Nikolai, the days of merrymaking at the nearby dacha are over. She is just a doctor and only prescribes medicine for him.”

Lazar suddenly cut himself off. Everyone fixed their eyes on him. He, in turn, looked at them. Each knew what the others were thinking. No one said a word. They had to trust one another. That was the only way out.
At last Molotov plucked up his courage and asked:
“What medicines are you talking about?”

The decisive moment had come. Lazar realized he had let something slip and had revealed part of his plan. But he also understood that circumstances had changed. He looked around: Molotov, Bulganin, Voroshilov — all old friends and comrades, trusted, loving their country and, above all, their positions in it.

Voroshilov had been removed from all military affairs right in the middle of the war. It was no secret that Stalin kept him on simply as an old political ally, not as a specialist, just as the man who had called Stalin “Koba” for forty years. It was a strange relationship, as if Stalin owed Voroshilov something. Stalin could afford to be generous. He could afford to be generous to a man who had ceased to be useful and, to tell the truth, had never been.

Lazar shifted his eyes to Bulganin. Nikolai was another old friend. He had been there from the very beginning. Lazar noticed that his glittering eyes and goatee gave him a solid, statesmanlike look, as if he were the real ruler of the country.

Molotov, too, had seen all kinds of times. He had lost his wife and was himself under threat.

And there was he himself, Lazar, the devoted servant of the leader, who accompanied him everywhere. But now the question of self-preservation arose, and survival had always been Lazar’s chief motive. He had to move forward.

Separately, they could not carry out what they had in mind, but together they would do it.

Lazar sighed and looked at the ceiling.
Yes, they must know and become one. He had already discussed this many times with Rosa, but it was important that she remain in the shadows and under no circumstances be present at their conversations. She had to be protected at all costs.

Voroshilov raised his hand. He used to do that whenever he was about to say something, regardless of how many people were in the room — one or a dozen.
“It’s clear to me what we must do. A small dose of poison is slipped into his wine — lately they’ve stopped testing it — and he falls into a coma. With his weak heart, death is inevitable. Only it mustn’t be poison as such, but a medicine that hastens death.”
He spoke like a true connoisseur.
Everyone looked at Lazar. After all, it was he who had proposed they all meet.

“Right, but not quite. Let’s see what we know.”
From his inside pocket Lazar drew a folded sheet of paper and opened it. He did not read it, but held it just in case.
“This is the conclusion of Yegorov, the head of the Kremlin hospital. Stalin has suffered a minor stroke. But no after-effects. A stroke develops when a blood clot blocks a brain vessel. Stalin was not taking heart medication. There are two reasons. First, if the heart muscle were weakened, they would prescribe digitalis, and according to Yegorov, there are no laboratory methods to determine the level of digitalis in the blood. Hence the second reason: Stalin, as you know, does not take medicines, especially those that cannot be detected in the blood. To his good fortune and our chagrin, he doesn’t need digitalis preparations.”

He checked the paper. Something was written in pencil in the margins. It was obvious that Rosa had written these explanations so that he himself could explain them.

Thus, the doctors saw no need to resort to digitalis. They thought that in this case a drug should be used that could thin the blood and thus prevent clot formation. That drug, a white crystalline powder, is used only in microscopic doses, because it is the well-known rat poison — “Dicumarol.”

Molotov roused himself:
“I know that substance. Exactly — rat poison.”
“Right,” Lazar smirked. “But in microscopic doses, it is a so-called anticoagulant, a blood-thinning substance. In theory, it should prevent blood vessel blockage. Stalin takes two and a half milligrams of dicumarol morning and evening.”

“And is some kind of test done?” asked Bulganin.
Lazar checked the paper again:
“Yes. Immediately after the stroke, they took a blood sample to determine the clotting time. At first it was done daily, then twice a week, to establish the proper dose of dicumarol. Very simple. And now that the dose is set, the test is only done once a month.”

“What comes next?” Bulganin lost patience.
“What next? I’m not a doctor; I’ve only been told that the dose is not checked on an ongoing basis.”

“In what form is the drug taken?” Molotov put in his question.
“Ordinary white tablets. Nothing remarkable. He keeps them under lock and key, as if afraid of poisoning.”
“And that’s precisely what you’re proposing?” Voroshilov asked.
“No. We’ll replace the tablets with others that look identical. Instead of five milligrams a day, he’ll take twenty. Stalin won’t be able to tell the difference. With the dosage raised, this rat poison has the ability to build up rapidly in the blood.”

“And the result?” Molotov inquired.
“Increasing the dose doesn’t mean killing him. His blood will become poorly clotting, thus increasing the chance of a brain hemorrhage. That’s your second stroke — a cerebral hemorrhage, a hemorrhagic stroke, not ischemic, which is even worse.”

“What is the probability?” Bulganin asked.
“Given his recent stroke, quite high.”

Voroshilov again raised his hand:
“Can the tablets’ origin be traced?”
“Whom would the investigation lead to? The pharmacist.”
“And who will administer the medicine?” came Molotov’s voice.
“Stalin himself. Do you know a more suitable candidate?”

Molotov paced the room, hands behind his back, deep in thought. Everyone’s eyes followed him.
“And Rosa will write the prescription?”
Silence fell. Lazar took a deep breath.
“She doesn’t have to. We have all the paperwork we need right here.”

“Will it work?” Bulganin said anxiously.
“It has to work. We simply have no other way out.”

“And where are all the medicines kept?”
“In his study. In a cabinet that’s locked. All these medicines are prescribed by Rosa, although Stalin prefers to treat himself with old folk remedies.”

Lazar turned to Molotov:
“I want her to be out of the country when this happens. I think you can arrange some trip for her.”
Molotov stared at Kaganovich.
“Would Canada do?”
Lazar nodded.

“And the others?” came Voroshilov’s voice.
Bulganin smiled:
“What about the others? Only Georgy (Malenkov) and Anastas (Mikoyan) have heads on their shoulders, and they have enough sense to stay in the shadows. They won’t back us, but they won’t hinder us either. Their silence is quite enough for us.”

“Then…” Lazar said, realizing all the weight of the moment. “Then…”
He again swept his gaze over everyone standing nearby. They looked at him in tense expectation. Then all silently exchanged glances. The decision was made.

Stalin had heard about the nighttime meeting, but he asked nothing, since the report he had demanded was on his desk at nine in the morning, though he himself appeared in his Kremlin office only by two in the afternoon. Stalin did not even inquire why only four Presidium members had gathered.
On February 17, 1953, Stalin received someone for the last time. It was the Indian ambassador K.P.S. Menon, who, like a typical Eastern diplomat, came to congratulate Stalin on his long-past birthday and to discuss developing relations between the two countries. India had only just gained formal independence from the quietly deceased British Empire. The imperialists were pushing India into the American-controlled Southeast Asia Treaty Organization. The dying British Empire, as a final act, shattered the unified India into several different states with different religions, following the principle: “It’s not ours anymore anyway—smash it to pieces!” One vast British India was broken into India proper, two Pakistans, Nepal, Burma, and so on. Moreover, in order to immediately provoke chaos and then later “come to the rescue,” the British carved off the Muslim state of Kashmir and gave it not to the two Muslim Pakistans, but precisely to Hindu India. By this the British booby-trapped the region with the potential for a large-scale war, which has been smoldering ever since.
Stalin, as always, toyed with a pencil and notepad, making small sketches of what was in his thoughts. That day he was drawing wolves in various poses.

• Who loves wolves? – asked Ambassador Menon. He could not help noticing that Stalin was thinking about something of his own. Stalin concentrated on his drawings.
• Stalin is a simple but clever man. — said Stalin — When wolves attack him, he does not try to teach them morality, but simply kills them. The wolves know this and behave accordingly.
• How do you know that? – Menon asked.
  Stalin laughed:
• Just become a sheep—they’ll appear right beside you!
• You… Premier… – a sheep?
  Stalin continued laughing.
• Don’t let yourself be deceived, Mr. Ambassador! When you leave, look carefully around you! Do you understand what I’m talking about? If wolves bare their teeth, they, unlike me, are not laughing!

Lazar had not seen Stalin for several weeks. He only hoped that Rosa would manage to do everything right on her own. Lazar remembered his religion and the Jewish holiday of Purim, which they used to celebrate in the now distant Kabany. Every spring in the month of March, Jews observe the festival of Purim. This holiday commemorates a momentous event in the history of the Jewish people. Three thousand years ago, the Jewish beauty Esther, the beloved wife of the Persian emperor Ahasuerus, brought about the downfall of the Persian prime minister Haman, who was allegedly planning to annihilate the Jewish people. Instead, Esther sent Haman himself to execution, along with many Persians. Before his death, Haman’s ears were cut off. Purim is considered a joyful holiday. Effigies of Haman are burned and beaten with sticks; cookies are baked in the shape of ugly little men—this is Haman; children tear off his arms and legs and eat them. It is customary to drink until one cannot tell the wicked villain from the good. At the mention of the name “Haman,” everyone must make noise and stomp. The greatest delicacy on Purim is a dish called “Haman’s Ears”—sweet poppy-seed pasties.

• Esther – Lazar thought — Rosa, Esther, Rosa…. — Lazar felt his pulse beating in sync with the pulse of history. This was what he had endured, disguised himself, and labored for all his life. His hour of destiny had come.

Late on the evening of Sunday, March 1, 1953, members of the new Presidium gathered in Stalin’s office in the Kremlin. There was nothing unusual about this meeting: party and government members often discussed important state matters with Stalin at such a late hour. Lazar got straight to business. He proposed appointing a commission to look into the “doctors’ case.” He said: “There is no evidence of their guilt, yet they have been held in prison for two months.” Stalin was stunned by this turn of events. He leaned back in his chair and stared at Kaganovich without looking away, as if he had misheard. But Lazar wasted no time: he immediately proposed a vote. One by one, everyone gathered at the table raised their hands; only Beria and Khrushchev refused. Lazar gave a menacing look at his protégé, but the bald little man averted his eyes and fixed them on Stalin. Stalin’s face turned crimson. Stalin rose from his chair and slammed his fist on the table: “Traitors.” The Politburo members froze in place; only Lazar remained standing where he was. Lazar declared firmly: “If we do not walk out of your office freely, loyal units will be brought into the Kremlin!” Stalin glanced at Beria. He was hiding in a corner, shaking his head from side to side. Stalin came out from behind the table. He was visibly shaken. He jabbed a finger into Lazar’s chest: “Traitor.” Then Stalin tried to reach for a button to summon his guards, but Mikoyan and Molotov pushed his hand away. Tripping over the edge of the carpet, Stalin fell, striking his head on the corner of the table… He lay motionless, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, saliva dripping onto his mustache. Everyone present stared in stupor and horror at Stalin lying at their feet… Stalin began to moan… Bulganin rushed over to Stalin. Molotov dashed to the medicine cabinet. Lazar grabbed a heavy marble blotter from the desk and smashed the cabinet’s glass with it. Glass shattered. Voroshilov stood in the doorway to make sure no one came in or went out, but Beria tried to dash out. Lazar placed a vial of clear liquid into Molotov’s hands. Bulganin was holding Stalin’s head. Stalin’s eyes were fixed on one point. Molotov brought the vial to Stalin’s lips. Bulganin pressed his cheeks. Stalin’s mouth opened, and Molotov poured the vial’s contents into Stalin’s mouth. Stalin swallowed the liquid automatically, only a little remained at the bottom. When he finished, he closed his eyes. Bulganin continued to hold his head in his hands and gently rocked it. A few minutes later, Stalin began to breathe more evenly, the crimsonness of his face disappeared. Those present in the office exchanged glances. Some had tears in their eyes. No one said a word. It was almost over. Since Stalin was still breathing, he was transported to his dacha in Kuntsevo. No one deliberately tried to hide that it had happened in the Kremlin. It came about on its own. The first government announcement indeed stated that it had occurred in Moscow. It was simply that the bulk of people connected with the situation in Kuntsevo, while the direct participants, since it very much resembled murder, thought it best not to mention the Kremlin incident – let it be Kuntsevo, let it be Kuntsevo. The less known about it, the better.

CHAPTER 6.

March 5, 1953.

Five huge black limousines passed by. Arbat returned to normal. “The boss has gone,” passersby said, following the limousines with their eyes.

In one of them sat Lazar Kaganovich, fingering a set of prayer beads. It seemed he could hear what the passersby were saying.

“Yes – that’s right – the boss,” Lazar agreed; he was becoming the boss. The decisive day was arriving. He slightly moved aside the curtain and looked out the window. The city streets gave way to village streets of the Moscow suburbs. Snow still lay everywhere. A fairy tale. Pristine purity. The suburban dachas had their own charm: with their white walls, stoves, and triangular roofs. Forty years ago he had first come to Moscow. Forty years, and yet it seemed like only yesterday. In November he had turned sixty. These four days since that Politburo meeting, where the clash with Stalin had occurred, had also flown by just as quickly. Lazar clearly remembered the expression on Stalin’s face at the moment when he demanded the order to halt the doctors’ case be rescinded: Stalin had clearly not expected such a turn of events.

“Did he really think I’m concerned about the Jews? That I’ve switched sides? That I’ve become their defender?” Lazar frowned.

“Stalin thought that blood is still stronger than personal loyalty,” Lazar muttered.

As Uncle Lyovik once said: “Blood is your blood, your blood, your blood!” Lazar shook his head. This was a matter of his personal survival, not of the Jews as a whole. But he is a Jew. By saving himself, wasn’t he saving a Jew, and therefore the Jews as a whole? Lazar stared at the car’s ceiling. And can a Jew come to power in this country? If Stalin rejected him, wouldn’t the Russians do the same? Can they even accept a Jew? The question was painful. His face twisted into a grimace. “So that’s what Uncle Lyovik was thinking about? That’s what he was really thinking about!” Lazar said, holding his breath: “The main thing is that the Jews should be well off.”

In Lazar’s memory, the film of that event kept constantly replaying, especially Stalin trying to summon help. He saw Mikoyan pushing Stalin’s hand away from the bell. Why, of all people, was it Mikoyan? Lazar was surprised:

“Anastas had always been ‘quieter than water, lower than grass.’ He always tried to keep to the sidelines. But here… Who would have expected such boldness from him?”

Over the last three days, Stalin had been hovering between life and death, now regaining consciousness, now losing it again. However, in reality, no one gave him medical assistance. He was simply isolated. From that very moment, for several days, no one even gave Stalin a glass of water. Everyone thought only of themselves. That unknown little vial that Lazar had poured into his mouth was the last moisture Stalin drank. Thoughts spun in Lazar’s head:

“In the end, a person can live without water for only three days. That was exactly enough for him, plus our ‘help.’ The country’s leading doctors were trembling like aspen leaves and preferred to cover their own backsides. They only held collective consultations to avoid personal responsibility. The appearance of medical assistance was created – ‘communiqués on his state of health.’ None of them even properly examined the patient. And Stalin was actually right when he wanted to jail them. Rare scum. They’re even worse than we, his ‘entourage.’ Of course, we ourselves selected the candidates for doctors. There wasn’t a single one among them who didn’t understand what was required of them.”

Meanwhile, Stalin was getting better. One of the doctors observed that this was “a classic case of improvement before death.” Without basic water, Stalin, one must think, indeed could not have gotten better.
“Specialists… Should I ever go to a doctor myself again, or trust anyone?!” thought Lazar. “We’ll need to draft an official announcement of Stalin’s death.”
The people of the vast country were kept in ignorance. The situation echoed January 1924, when Lenin died.
“The main thing is that everything should proceed as it must. The Politburo must have calm conditions to choose a successor. Only thus can we avoid unrest, disorder, and loss of power. Continuity ensured the party’s survival and the preservation of the positions held by its leading members. This rules out interference from any outside forces.” Lazar glanced at his watch. Soon he would be there. Strange that the Politburo members had been called not by Stalin or the doctors, but by the guards. And where was Poskrebyshev or the personal bodyguard? Something wasn’t right there.
The huge limousine, its headlights illuminating pines and birches growing along the road, approached the gates of the dacha. Lazar looked out the window. Everything was surrounded by MVD troops.
“So Beria has already arrived. It would be surprising if the Kremlin isn’t cordoned off yet,” Lazar thought. “But never mind, just wait,” he whispered, “We’ve got a plan for you too.”
It turned out that Kaganovich had arrived one of the last. Everyone was already there, and lights were on everywhere. The first person Lazar saw was Malenkov. He looked depressed but calm. He was talking about something with Beria. Beria was listening to him, but his eyes darted around the room. It was clear he was doing his utmost to control his emotions. Bulganin noticed Lazar and headed toward him:
— They just brought a locksmith to deal with the lock — Georgy (Malenkov) gave the order.
Lavrenty intended to break down the door. Georgy keeps trying to calm him down. After all, he’s already ordered tanks to surround the Kremlin.
Lazar couldn’t help smiling: he had just foreseen this turn of events. Could Beria really hope that he could become Stalin’s successor? Idiot!
— And where’s the commandant? Did he report this? – asked Lazar.
— The commandant? Which commandant? He seems to have vanished. And Poskrebyshev is nowhere to be found.
Molotov came over. He had heard Bulganin’s words and squeezed Lazar’s hand.
— Everyone’s disappeared somewhere. The servants, the guards.
Molotov looked at Lazar. Lazar wanted to ask him just one thing:
— Canada?
Molotov nodded, and Lazar breathed a sigh of relief.
Voroshilov emerged from the corridor leading to Stalin’s bedroom.
— The locksmith is fiddling with the lock. And the doctors are in there.
He glanced at Bulganin:
— Reliable?
Bulganin turned to the only guard standing by the door:
— No one is to be let in, under any pretext. Is that clear?
The guard straightened up as if on command “at attention.”
— And lock the door, — added Bulganin.
Then Bulganin addressed the officer who had called all the Politburo members:
— Everything only on the order of Malenkov or myself personally. And you see nothing and hear nothing. Is that clear?
— Yes, sir!

Discussions had already begun about what would happen if Stalin did not survive. TASS had issued an official statement a few minutes earlier about what had happened to Stalin, as if it had just happened, when in fact several days had already passed. The statement said that “the best specialists” were providing the necessary treatment and stressed the unbreakable unity of the party and government and their determination to follow the country’s traditional course. This was the best commentary on what the Doctors’ Plot had just warned about. The TASS statement emphasized that Stalin was only “temporarily” not performing his duties.
The previous four days had been a whirlwind of closed meetings of Politburo members about Stalin’s successor. As a result of the discussions, everyone agreed on the candidacy of Georgy Malenkov. Among other things, Malenkov was on good terms with Beria, who could ensure support from the State Security organs in case complications arose. Lazar knew that the time for a final decision had not yet come, or at least he hoped so. He overestimated his own position and did not understand that none of them had full power. Lazar had done little to exploit the situation. Malenkov seemed a casual and weak obstacle.
In December 1948, for Stalin’s seventieth birthday, Pravda published a series of articles by Politburo members in honor of Stalin. Malenkov’s article was the lead. Everyone understood who had arranged that. Stalin was not afraid of Malenkov. He was not regarded as a wolf.
— No need to be afraid, — said Molotov, addressing Bulganin, Voroshilov, and Kaganovich.
He continued:
— It’s important to preserve the country’s integrity. Lavrenty must be kept under constant control.
Very soon we’ll get rid of him. Georgy won’t last long, a year at most, no longer. I know what I’m talking about. The time will come when we can accomplish a great deal.
— And Nikita? – interjected Bulganin.
— He can be managed, — said Lazar. – I know him well enough.

Khrushchev had just come through the door. He headed over to Malenkov and said a few words to him, then stood in the corridor watching the locksmith fiddle with Stalin’s door. He did not even glance in Lazar’s direction. Soon the sound of a door being flung open rang out. Everyone except the locksmith flooded into the bedroom. One of the guards pushed the locksmith away in the opposite direction.

Stalin lay on the floor. His chest rose and fell as if in a heavy sleep. He was wearing his clothes: a brown shirt and brown trousers, his boots standing near the bed. This was typical; Stalin often slept in his clothes.

Three doctors and Voroshilov carried him over to the narrow wooden bed. His eyelids quivered. At times he opened his eyes, but only for a very short while. In those moments everyone tried to draw closer to him, to catch any words. His yellowish-brown eyes no longer expressed anything. His cheeks were sunken, his hair completely grey, and his lips were covered in a dry—dry crust. Lazar noticed that his trousers were wet; he had wet himself.

Everyone stood silent around the bed. Only Beria showed impatience. Once, Stalin’s eyes remained open longer than usual.

“He is regaining consciousness,” one of the doctors observed.

“Tea…,” Stalin merely rasped.

Another doctor slightly lifted Stalin’s head and only moistened his dry lips with a damp towel.

“Fiend,” thought Lazar.

Stalin’s eyes wandered dimly over everyone present in the room. Tea was brought, and the doctor began to give Stalin tea from a small silver spoon. The first time in four days. Stalin started swallowing greedily. Stalin truly had been struck by paralysis. Now the right side of his body was inactive.

“It worked after all,” thought Lazar.

Stalin weakly raised one hand and pointed at the picture on the wall where a girl was feeding milk to a lamb. His lips tried to smile. Powerlessly, he dropped his head back onto the pillow. So he lay for another hour, now opening, now closing his eyes. The doctors did not leave his side, but did nothing either, only occasionally conferring among themselves. Stalin’s face took on an earthy hue. He began to choke. His facial features grew sharp. One of the doctors brought an oxygen mask to his face, but with his left hand Stalin pushed it away. He raised his hand, as if pointing at the ceiling, and in exhaustion let it fall back. At last his movements ceased.

Beria spun around on his heels and rushed out of the room. Lazar could hear his loud voice demanding a car: “Khrustalyov! A car!”

Voroshilov and Bulganin were weeping. Malenkov knelt by the bed and stared at him. Khrushchev kept his distance, watching as the doctors tried to make sure he was really dead. Molotov sifted through papers in his briefcase. Lazar watched all this as if it were a play, from the sidelines. He was not sad enough to weep, but he was sad enough to want to.

Malenkov rose from his knees and beckoned to one of the doctors. He whispered something in his ear. The doctor nodded and went over to his two colleagues. They listened to him, then left the room after Molotov. Georgy Malenkov wanted an official communiqué to be written at once. Molotov returned with a prepared document. There was a smoothed‑over story, abound with medical terms. All of it was a lie. The occurrence in the Kremlin was entirely left out. Death was officially confirmed on 5 March at 21:50. The official autopsy report was delivered on 6 March at 16:30.

The next day, 6 March, by six o’clock in the morning pandemonium had broken out in Moscow. The people seemed to sense disaster. From all across the country people headed to Moscow to bid farewell to the leader. People seemed to realize that they had lost their protector and that things would now be hard for them. Red‑and‑black flags hung from every building. Candles burned in every window. It is unlikely that anything similar had ever been seen in the world. The radio tried to placate the people by every means. They decided to bury him with full honours: for three days the body would lie in state, be embalmed, and placed in the mausoleum next to Lenin. The man who embalmed Lenin had already died. They urgently looked for another. It was as though the murderers were trying to atone for their guilt with pompous funerals.

Immediately after Stalin’s death at his dacha, Lazar returned to his Moscow apartment. He knew the days ahead would be long. He was not only to stand in the honor guard at the leader’s coffin but also to take part in numerous meetings to determine the country’s future course. Georgy Malenkov would become Stalin’s successor. Yet it was clear to all members of the Politburo that Malenkov was only a nominal figure. Behind him would stand Beria, Molotov, Bulganin, and he, Lazar Kaganovich. Khrushchev would also enter this narrow circle of “rulers,” because Malenkov had tasked him with organizing Stalin’s funeral. Lazar was against Khrushchev’s appointment, but Nikita already had many “friends” in the top echelon of power, and he had secured the appointment for himself. Lazar did not know where Khrushchev had found these new “friends.” The old guard did not like Khrushchev. Most likely, Khrushchev had forged close ties with young apparatus workers.

Lazar understood what he had to do: in the coming days, he must show himself in the best possible light. He agonizingly thought through, down to the smallest detail, how he should behave and how to dress. First of all, he had to make the impression of a man who had held a responsible government post. First priority — the Honor Guard, for photographs of the party and government members gathered to bid farewell to the deceased leader would circulate in all the world’s newspapers. He must look beyond compare.

On March 6 at 3 p.m., Stalin’s body was placed in the Hall of Columns of the House of Unions.

Beria was dressed in a double-breasted suit. Molotov and Mikoyan wore single-breasted suits with vests. Here, like Lazar, everyone understood the game being played and secretly hoped. Khrushchev was also in a suit, but it hung on him like a sack of potatoes. Everyone was in black. Bulganin and Voroshilov were in full-dress military uniform with all their regalia. To his surprise, Lazar saw Malenkov in a Stalin-style tunic. Lazar himself wore a single-breasted suit that concealed his stoutness. Lazar was taller than everyone else, and, like a child, he hoped that someone would choose him for his height. All wore mourning bands.

From the very start of the funeral, Lazar watched Malenkov. Malenkov immediately took his place to the right of the coffin. In Lazar’s opinion, he resembled a fat, overfed pig. Who would take him seriously? “Fat trust” in a tunic!

The House of Unions was quiet and majestic. The crystal chandeliers were draped. A green carpet lay on the floor.

The coffin, unlike those at American state funerals, stood open. A sea of flowers. Lazar looked at Stalin and froze — it was the young Stalin, as he had looked thirty years before. Even his solid gray hair had vanished. He could not have been given more than fifty years. Lazar was even afraid that Stalin might open his eyes.

The farewell to the leader lasted three days. By the third day, the line had grown to 10 kilometers. Beria summoned additional police forces from Leningrad. Militiamen were everywhere. For the most part, they were ineffective and unable to handle the crowds of people who had come to say goodbye to the “father.”

Lazar fantasized. How would they bury him? Day and night, Lazar attended rallies and meetings, gave speeches, met with foreign diplomats, and prepared himself for a central role.

It looked as though the country would have three leaders: Malenkov, Beria, and Molotov. Bulganin, Mikoyan, and Kaganovich himself were also very close at hand. Yet everyone expected anything to happen. Khrushchev also hoped.

“All right,” Lazar thought: “Everything will begin once the foreigners have left and things quiet down.”

March 9 was a very cold day. Lazar put on a warm coat with a fur collar and a fur hat. He wanted to give the impression of a large, physically strong man who overshadowed his comrades. Besides, he had no intention of freezing on the Mausoleum rostrum. Lazar was unpleasantly struck by the fact that he had not been invited to deliver a speech. Khrushchev, as the funeral’s organizer, had set the order of speakers. First – Malenkov, second – Beria, and third – Molotov.

— Don’t get worked up. At least for now,” Molotov advised him. “Right now it makes no difference. Better not stick your neck out ahead of time. On the contrary, you have a greater chance to demonstrate your grief. Besides, they’ve given you an honored place at the front of the funeral procession. You’ll walk directly behind the coffin. In the long run that matters a lot. Speeches are not what you need right now. I’ll look after your interests.”

Lazar had to believe Molotov. Many had opposed Kaganovich speaking at the funeral. Lazar sensed that immediately after Stalin’s death a deep mistrust of him had taken root among his former comrades.

Six black horses slowly pulled the caisson bearing Stalin’s coffin from the House of Trade Unions to the mausoleum. Lazar was indeed in the first row behind the coffin. But others were there as well, on his right and on his left. The Chinese representative Zhou Enlai walked between Malenkov and Beria, and Khrushchev was on the outside. Everyone wore fur hats, except Beria, whose hat was merely trimmed with fur.

Red Square was full of people. Stalin’s name was already inscribed on the mausoleum. Khrushchev introduced the speakers, and Lazar felt a burning resentment. A former subordinate – and look how he had outrun him. The first speaker, Malenkov, promised peace. Beria promised to protect the workers’ rights. Lazar grew tired of listening and drifted off. He recalled Lenin’s funeral thirty years earlier. Lenin – Stalin. And what of him, Lazar? Now he heard Molotov’s piercing voice. Lazar had always loved Molotov.

When the speeches ended, the comrades – Malenkov, Beria, Molotov, Khrushchev, Voroshilov, Bulganin, Mikoyan, and Lazar – carried the coffin. The coffin was heavy, and twice they nearly dropped it. Bulganin had to be helped; he could not control his emotions. Lazar was calm, only his gloves slipped on the brass handles of the coffin. When they lowered the coffin, Lazar went up to Bulganin and embraced him. Nikolai was weeping. Even the guards were crying.

The Kremlin chimes struck twelve. The troops of the Moscow garrison proceeded to the starting point of the march. The lowered flags drooped. Standards were dipped. The country stood frozen in a minute of silence. Everything stopped and stood still…

Then the factory whistles began to blare, long and drawn-out. A salute of rifle fire crashed. That was all.

An hour after the funeral ended in the Kremlin, the country’s new leaders gathered in a hall on the third floor. Malenkov led this informal meeting. The coming months would be critical. Everyone was present except Beria: he had gone to Stalin’s dacha to personally handle the furniture and other property. Malenkov, who needed Beria’s support, cursed. “Son of a bitch! He just can’t wait! He can’t hold off!”

Lazar surveyed those gathered around the table. It was a most fascinating sight. Each person present had his own particular merits, notions, and ambitions. And Lazar suddenly realized that now, with Stalin no longer occupying his customary place at the head of the table, these people would find it difficult and unfamiliar to make decisions. For now they themselves would have to formulate those decisions and bear full responsibility for them—and they had never been trained to do that. The qualities by which they had attained their positions were entirely different.

All his life, Lazar had moved cautiously and meticulously toward securing a certain standing. And now he was one of the leaders of a vast state. No one stood in his way any longer—only a few “like-minded” colleagues beside him, and everyone else behind. Yet he did not feel satisfied; something would not let him rest. Before, he had been at the summit of power beside an outstanding and all-powerful ruler. Now that man was gone, and Lazar felt as if he were still searching for something, like someone lost in a forest. There was no one left to follow. Uncle Lyovik was dead, Trotsky was no longer alive, and now Stalin too was gone. No one stood ahead of him. Power lay at his feet. But at the moment he was sharing that power with others. On the surface it seemed that everyone had equally equal rights. In reality, each was trying to grab a larger piece. Lazar studied those present. Malenkov was noticeably nervous and biting his nails. As fat as ever. With his nails chewed down, his thick fingers looked even shorter now. Beside him sat Bulganin, who had already coined a nickname for Malenkov: “Big Georgy.” Bulganin himself had a paunch, but the nickname for Malenkov had turned out to be quite apt. In “Big Georgy,” Lazar saw only a buffoon. Not a bad man, but a complete clown. Without Beria’s backing, that fat man with the sausage fingers would not have lasted long in his chair.

Bulganin could not aspire to the role of leader. He lacked the political killer instinct. He preferred to think decisions over, yet at the same time he could not offer much. He was liked and respected, but not taken seriously, especially compared to Molotov.

Molotov was now a man to be reckoned with. He was intelligent, cunning, and ready for a fight. He had proven that when Stalin repeatedly tried to remove him from the post of Minister of Foreign Affairs. Molotov was a dangerous rival.

Voroshilov and Mikoyan seemed like nonentities, although Anastas did have a head on his shoulders. His main problem lay in dealing with people, and he rarely voiced his own opinion. He was very conservative and had no wish to be drawn into political contradictions and disputes.

Only Beria counted—the one person absent from this meeting. In pushiness he resembled Molotov, but he was distinguished by insolence and cruelty.

And, finally, Khrushchev, who now, by right as First Secretary of the Central Committee, sat with everyone else at this table. In truth, he did not belong to Beria’s team. Yes, he had ambitions, but he still lacked firm ground under his feet. Until now, it was Lazar who had supported him and ensured his advancement into the highest echelon of power. Stalin had intended to get rid of him, especially when, after the war, Khrushchev was removed from his post as First Secretary of Ukraine. Back then, Lazar had saved Khrushchev. But the open question remained whether Khrushchev could stand firmly on his own without outside support. Lazar did not know that Khrushchev had already made a pact with the devil. The main problem for them all was still Lavrenty, and everyone at the table understood that sooner or later this would have to be resolved—and Khrushchev they overlooked.

After the meeting on March 9, a new meeting followed on March 10, then on March 11. The stream of meetings did not stop. A week later, Lazar realized that collective leadership would lead nowhere. “You can’t even fart without collective permission,” he remarked on the matter.
First the agenda was set, and then they moved on to discussing pressing issues. Each of those present had his own opinion, which did not coincide with the opinions of others. Previously, Stalin had controlled and held every discussion in his hands; now there was a vicious circle: endless conversations were conducted, they jumped from one issue to another, a new argument would begin, but no decisions were made. Shouting, personal attacks, intrigues behind each other’s backs, and squabbles became the order of the day. In Stalin’s time, discipline had always prevailed. Now Politburo sessions had turned into chaos.
Already in the first days after the funeral, the question arose of what to do with Stalin. The fact that he was dead changed nothing. Continue his line or not? “If not, then how far can we deviate from the Stalinist path?” Malenkov asked. In narrow circles this topic had been discussed even before Stalin’s death, but the decision had remained up in the air.
There was an opinion that discipline should be relaxed. This opinion was promoted by Malenkov, Molotov, Bulganin, and Khrushchev. They proposed a new line. This new line was justified by hypocritical concern for the people. Supposedly, the people had always lived hard, and their lot could be eased only through laxity. Malenkov wanted to immediately bestow benefits on the people. He wanted to lower prices and at the same time purchase imported industrial goods. He had little idea how these two were to be reconciled. Khrushchev was not against this, but he nevertheless suspected that just purchasing imported industrial goods was not enough.
– We need tractors and equipment that can do more than washing machines. We need to supply agriculture with machinery. I support the general idea, but not the details.
Khrushchev turned toward Lazar and asked with a smile:
– We can’t give everything to “Big Georgy,” can we?
Lazar looked at Khrushchev’s grinning, gap-toothed, strained smile. A clown, and nothing more. Just think, this fat little runt had once hung on his every word and licked his boots, and now he sat at the same table as Lazar on equal footing! Khrushchev’s face hadn’t changed at all—just as ugly. Only the wart on his nose seemed to have grown larger.
It was clear that times were changing. Lazar was not sure that retreating from Stalinist policy was the right thing to do.
– Russians have always had a tsar. – Lazar said – They want a strong leader. They cannot manage without one. They will become confused if they get too much freedom. They must have a bridle and shafts. If they are given too much freedom, they will run wild. Lenin also emphasized this.
But his opinion did not find support. Malenkov and Beria firmly stood their ground. They wanted to dissociate themselves from Stalin’s name, using him as the main figure upon whom all the adversities of the preceding years could be heaped. In Khrushchev they found an ardent supporter. Khrushchev wanted a full program of “de-Stalinization” of the state. He was even ready to lay all the sacrifices of that period on Stalin, even though Stalin was precisely the factor that had minimized those sacrifices. If it hadn’t been for Stalin, the Russian people would not have existed at all. That is precisely why Khrushchev was eventually supported by the neo-Trotskyists and won in this race for power.
Molotov supported Kaganovich, but did not show great firmness. Everyone had a reflex of self-preservation. Molotov was ready to make concessions.
As a result, the tone of the newspaper “Pravda” began to change. Stalin’s name appeared on its pages less and less frequently. Finally, in the issue of March 22, he was not mentioned at all. Only two weeks had passed since the funeral. And already on April 7, “Pravda” was pontificating about the “Soviet Constitution,” which had previously been called nothing other than the “Stalin Constitution.” “Pravda” was already under the control of the new forces.
Other changes were taking place as well. The number of articles directed against Jews decreased, and mention of the so-called “Doctors’ Plot” ceased entirely. “Pravda” announced that people in white coats had been “fully exonerated of the charges brought against them.” No one even bothered to notice that these were not charges but evidence, and that Stalin had caught the Kremlin doctors red-handed. Moreover, after this the Kremlin doctors killed Stalin himself. And although the question of Stalin’s successor was open, the people realized that “black souls”

• Beria is gathering strength. – Khrushchev stated.
  Lazar stared at him.
  “And you’re not as simple as you pretended!” Lazar thought. — “Don’t jerk me around and don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes.”
  Nevertheless, they were ultimately able to reach an agreement. At least about Beria. They couldn’t choose a leader among themselves, but they seemed to agree on whom to eliminate first.
  Malenkov, Molotov, Voroshilov, Khrushchev, Bulganin and Lazar voted for this decision at a secret meeting while Beria was away in Leningrad. Only Mikoyan did not raise his hand. That would come back to haunt him later. Mikoyan would rise no more. His colleagues forgot nothing and forgave nothing.
  In mid‑July, Lavrenty Pavlovich Beria was arrested. He was charged with a long list of crimes against the Soviet people. Khrushchev provided a particularly large amount of information against Beria. Even then, Lazar was struck by Khrushchev’s extraordinary knowledge.
  “Where does Khrushchev get all this information? After all, by himself he is incapable of what he is now doing. Who is behind him?” Lazar thought.
  Actually, it was a purely rhetorical question; Lazar knew perfectly well who stood behind Khrushchev.

Beria was tried. The five judges knew beforehand what sentence had to be handed down. After the verdict, Beria was shot in the basement of building 22 on Lubyanka Street. Lazar saw them leading him away. His face was frozen into a stone mask. He was pale. He said nothing and stared straight ahead. Everything had been decided. No one could do anything any more. In one of the basement cells, Beria was shot.
Without Beria’s support, Malenkov suddenly discovered, to his surprise, that he was now nobody and that his influence had evaporated. At first “Big George” threw himself into a flurry of activity. He launched numerous talks with the West and quickly signed an armistice with the Americans in Korea. There was nothing to find fault with. But there was no need to find fault either. Without Beria’s support, as it turned out, Malenkov was nobody and nothing. The wolves understood that if they had no clear leader, then selection would be based not on strength but on weakness. It is easier to find out who is the weakest, not who is the strongest. At the beginning of 1955, Malenkov was devoured — he was removed from all his posts. Now the circle of candidates narrowed to three: Molotov, Khrushchev and Kaganovich.

Bulganin replaced Malenkov. Bulganin’s candidacy was the only one among the Politburo members that suited Molotov, Khrushchev and Kaganovich. In fact, he was given only a “ceremonial” role; the country would continue to be run by the same “triumvirate.” Bulganin did not object. He wisely did not aspire to anything more.
Although Malenkov formally remained a member of the Politburo, that was only because they had decided to postpone expelling him for the time being. Now he just watched the struggle unfold, and it was not long in coming.
On one side was Khrushchev, representing the middle echelon of power. This middle echelon was now fully controlled by the released Trotskyite‑internationalists. Naturally, they stood for dismantling not only Stalin’s policies but the entire state as well. These were the very people who later, after using Khrushchev, removed him too when he ceased to suit them. For that, Khrushchev can only thank his son‑in‑law. Even then this mafia was plotting the total dismantling of the Soviet state. Israel already existed. Everything else no longer mattered to them. In 1951, under the Israeli prime minister, a special department was created whose task was to organize the collapse of the USSR with the help of people whose core was made up of Zionists with a different historical homeland, who by that time had become the main driving force of modernity. The concept of a “historical homeland” replaced the concept of simply “homeland.”
This Khrushchev group did not want to create fertile ground for a new strong leader of the country. They wanted to produce change but were afraid even of a total anti‑Stalin purge. They needed a dirty atmosphere in which, like microbes, they could freely multiply. That dirty atmosphere received the gentle name “thaw.”
Molotov favoured continuing Stalin’s line. However, Lazar quickly saw that if he insisted, he would be accused of being out of step with the spirit of the times. It was Lazar who proposed that the anti‑Stalin purges should end. At the Politburo meeting he said:
“I will take the liberty of saying that certain ideas are fundamentally theoretical, although they touch on the ‘cult of personality.’ These are not easy questions, but the Central Committee gives them the correct answer.”
Everyone stared at him in bewilderment. What did he think? That the question was already settled and there was no need to return to it? Lazar was telling them in plain language that all discussions must be strictly theoretical, that is, impersonal and unspecific, and must not raise the question of guilt and personal responsibility. Lazar tried to shift the centre of gravity of state policy onto international themes in order to sidestep the sharp posing of the question inside the country. Lazar told the Supreme Soviet that the Communists would win the struggle against colonialism “because all the advantages are on our side.” Only he did not say what those advantages were. He did not care. He had his own tactics in mind. He would yet show them that he still had powder in his powder horn. He would not hide. He would even travel around the country with Malenkov and Khrushchev, speaking at various meetings before workers and collective farmers.
The only problem was that others began to voice doubts about Lazar’s abilities. This got back to Lazar. He was confronted with it for the first time, and it threw him off balance.

On the other hand, Khrushchev was gaining momentum. At the Twentieth Party Congress on February 24–25, 1956, the Trotskyists standing behind Khrushchev struck a blow.

The Twentieth Party Congress wavered and gradually began slipping away from Khrushchev’s influence. He was left with no choice. In order to remain in power, Khrushchev had to completely debunk his former boss. As you can understand, Khrushchev automatically fell under his own attack. Khrushchev understood this better than anyone and hesitated. Therefore, to get him to agree, the Trotskyists proposed to Khrushchev that the report would be a “closed” one.

Lazar had heard about Khrushchev’s intentions to lay all the blame on Stalin and loudly protested. But Khrushchev proved to be a capable student. His “secret speech” was on everyone’s lips.

“Who would have thought that such a bootlicker harbored such a drive for power?” Lazar thought.

In his speech, Khrushchev accused Lazar and the others of trying to whitewash Stalin because they supported Stalin’s policies. Lazar sensed that these were not mere personal jibes—it went much deeper. Lazar realized this was a neo-Trotskyist revenge against Stalin. Lazar knew perfectly well the neo-Trotskyist goals. They had succeeded in exploiting the ambitions of Khrushchev, the very last in line for power, and directing those ambitions toward their own ends. Lazar himself had at times worked toward their goals, but he had no organizational ties with them. Lazar was a lone wolf. His own skin had always interested him above all. Who had turned things around so that the General Secretary of the Party, which Khrushchev was, now had to justify himself? It was the neo-Trotskyists, people who had done even more than install a General Secretary who suited them—they had even provided Khrushchev with a son-in-law. His son-in-law Adzhubei was the chief editor of Komsomolskaya Pravda and Izvestia. The newspaper Izvestia in the USSR was a mirror image of the liberal-Zionist New York Times. There is nothing surprising in the fact that Nikita’s son, Sergei, now lives in America. Not for nothing did Nikita light candles on Saturdays. The neo-Trotskyists instantly turned the state in the opposite direction. “The Thaw”… They did not even try to hide that winter would come yet, but it would be a “winter” of their own making, and then others would truly feel the cold. The neo-Trotskyists lifted the Iron Curtain, and from beneath it a flood of filth and revolting impurities gushed out. An enormous American exhibition immediately came to Moscow, all glittering and shining with huge, luxurious automobiles. Khrushchev’s eyes lit up at once. By his order, the production of government “Chaika” limousines was immediately set up; they were like twins to the American Chevrolet. After that, Khrushchev altogether went to America himself. An international festival of youth and students was organized, touted as a peaceful forum of youth from all countries. Before this “peace forum,” there were no venereal diseases in Moscow, not even gonorrhea. After this “peace forum,” an epidemic of gonorrhea and syphilis began, and from there it spread…. It was then that people understood: there had been no “Iron Curtain” but rather a steel armor that had reliably protected them from the corrupting influence of the West. Now that armor was gone.

Now, many years later, the goal of that “Youth and Students Festival,” as well as later the “Olympics”—that international forum of spies and prostitutes—has become clear, but back then the neo-Trotskyists and Khrushchev painted the future of the Soviet people in rosy colors. Huge billboards hung on buildings with the promise: “This generation of Soviet people will live under communism.” And the signature: N. S. Khrushchev. But this generation of Soviet people had their country and their future taken from them entirely, and that, then as always, was the clear and sole aim of the neo-Trotskyists.

In the report, Khrushchev accused Stalin of having deported ethnic minorities. Subsequently, the issue was reduced to the alleged plan to deport Jews, which had never even been mentioned. Khrushchev accused Stalin even of having collaborated with Hitler to carry out the deportation of peoples. Of Kaganovich’s deportation of the peasants of Ukraine and Kuban, wisely, not a word was said. Khrushchev did not raise questions in which he was personally implicated. Khrushchev fabricated that Stalin after the war became more suspicious and intolerant, which was the reason for the cool relations with Tito and Yugoslavia. Khrushchev declared that Stalin considered himself the greatest of the great, erected monuments to himself, named cities and collective farms after himself, and even instituted awards in his own name. Meanwhile, Khrushchev himself had people shot in Georgia who would not allow the removal of Stalin’s monuments. In Baku, before the eyes of tens of thousands of people on guard, Stalin’s monument was pulled down by a helicopter. And in Tbilisi, they simply shot everyone who was near the monument. It was absolutely clear that Khrushchev could not have thought all this up by himself. Behind him was a whole propaganda staff. Of course, Khrushchev demanded that delegates keep the content of the report to themselves, but it was clear that this was just a trick.
As expected, the contents of the report surfaced and made a terrible impression on the whole world. To confirm that the rumors were true, part of the closed report was released in June 1956 as a resolution “On Overcoming the ‘Cult of Personality’ and Its Consequences.”
Khrushchev’s assertions gave a completely new interpretation of life in the country under Stalin: it was no longer the courageous struggle of the people against capitalist states and their agents within the country, but a concept of life under terror emanating personally from Stalin and his inner circle. All the achievements of socialism attained during Stalin’s lifetime became attributed to other factors. Khrushchev went even further. For example, although he attributed the purges to Stalin, it was asserted that in fact Lenin had started them.
“These traits,” Khrushchev told the congress, “stemmed from Lenin’s organizational principles of the party, with their disregard for the opinion of the minority and for the opinion of the rest of the people.”
Khrushchev ridiculed “Stalin’s faith in his own infallibility,” yet no longer insisted that this was an inherent part of the entire Leninist system.
Towards the end, Khrushchev debunked “Stalin’s self-deification,” but wisely kept quiet that he himself, in doing so, was the sweetest of sycophants.
Probably there has been no equivalent in history to such a document as the one Khrushchev read out. To Lazar it was clear that Khrushchev was just reading the report.

• They’ve unleashed a nest of vipers, granted an amnesty. — Thought Lazar. — They quickly found the candidate they needed. Ah, Khrushchev! What a sly one.

Lazar understood their tactics. Nikita, like himself in years past, did everything to achieve his goal, sparing no one and nothing in his path. In his famous report exposing the “cult of personality,” Khrushchev not only betrayed but actually slandered his leader and his party comrades in order to present himself in a favorable light. Lazar had always done the same. His pupil had turned out to be remarkably spry. Lazar realized that he had no choice but to struggle against Khrushchev. His former “protégé,” worming his way into power, had solid support. Consequently, Lazar had to win over as many supporters as possible. Even if it meant sharing power with them. Otherwise, he could lose everything.

• Cut off the dragon’s head, and it will stop breathing fire. — Lazar recalled a Chinese proverb. — If we delay a little longer, it will be too late.

A few hours after the congress closed, Lazar met with Molotov. They discussed possible options. Very soon Malenkov joined them, and then Shepilov. They decided to gather material that would expose Khrushchev, especially his years of work in Ukraine. Later this would be called the “anti-party group.” Yet it was not an “anti-party group”—the real “anti-party group” had already seized power in the country.
Over the course of a year, those assembled worked on documents against Khrushchev. They needed to muster a majority of votes. Molotov was confident of that. They compiled an impressive list of all Khrushchev’s spineless concessions. This would be their chief weapon.
In June 1957 the Plenum of the CPSU Central Committee convened. Khrushchev gathered the Plenum in one of the rooms of the Great Kremlin Palace. Khrushchev knew that a decisive battle was coming, and he too had been thoroughly prepared.
In a small, wood‑paneled room, thirty‑three participants sat on hard, unupholstered chairs around a long table and listened to Khrushchev. Lazar had in his hands all the material that would annihilate Khrushchev, and he was determined to give Khrushchev a decisive fight. It would be the final stage of his struggle for the chair at the head of the table.
Nikita, however, wasted no time and gave Lazar no chance even to speak. Instead, Khrushchev produced thirty‑two letters that Kaganovich had written to NKVD organs demanding the arrest of many prominent Soviet party members.
“In point of fact,” Khrushchev declared, “Lazar Moiseyevich Kaganovich even ordered the arrest of ten leading specialists in his own commissariat simply because their behavior seemed suspicious to him.”
Lazar was stunned. How had he managed to find those documents? He had been sure they were safely hidden.
“And these documents,” Khrushchev continued, “prove that Lazar Moiseyevich Kaganovich, before any court decision, passed the sentence he wanted on his own.”
“That’s outrageous!” shouted Lazar.
Nikita turned toward Lazar and broke into a smile.
“I think the congress that is planned for next year will share that opinion.”
Then Khrushchev went on:
“We have in our hands additional evidence confirming that Kaganovich actively interfered with the work of investigative bodies and imposed his own decisions on them. For example, it was said that an attempt on his life was supposedly being plotted. In reality, people were arrested only because he did not trust them. The arrested were given a death sentence. I repeat: a death sentence.”
Khrushchev did not stop there. He even called in Shelepin, his supporter, with additional information, adding that if necessary they would bring the matter before a congress. Shelepin announced that he had in his possession documents proving that Molotov and Kaganovich had jointly authorized the arrests and executions of many communists.
“Many of whom were your friends!” Shelepin waved the paper. “When Yakir wrote a petition for clemency, Stalin scrawled ‘scoundrel and prostitute,’ Voroshilov added ‘an absolutely correct definition,’ Molotov put his signature, and Lazar Moiseyevich added: ‘This traitor, this scum deserves only one thing—to be shot.’”
Lazar glanced at Voroshilov. Voroshilov lowered his eyes. The fact that Yakir had indeed worked for a foreign power, personally for Comrade Trotsky, and had admitted it without any pressure, no longer mattered. Lazar immediately understood what would happen. Voroshilov had always supported him, and now he would go over to Khrushchev’s side. That was clear. Who would be next? He shifted his gaze to Bulganin. Nikolai nervously twirled a pencil, tapping it on the table. Lazar again heard Khrushchev’s voice:
“Lazar Moiseyevich’s ruthlessness knew no bounds. When he arrived in Ivanovo‑Voznesensk, he sent a telegram to Stalin: ‘A first acquaintance with the situation shows that the regional committee secretary Epanchikov is subject to immediate arrest. The head of the propaganda department Mikhailov must also be arrested.’ Then a second telegram followed: ‘A more thorough check has established that Trotskyite influence has penetrated all spheres of public life—industry, agriculture, healthcare, trade, education. The regional organizations and the party regional committee have been largely flooded with Trotskyite elements.’”
Nikita turned toward Lazar. A sinister fire danced in his eyes.
“Having received Stalin’s consent, Lazar Moiseyevich destroyed the Ivanovo Regional Committee. All his accusations turned out to be fabricated.” Khrushchev raised his fist. “And when Lazar Moiseyevich became Commissar of Railways, a wave of arrests crashed down on railway workers. Comrade Shvernik’s speech bears witness to that. Lazar Moiseyevich personally pronounced sentences on wholly innocent people and called on party activists to uncover enemies in their ranks and to fight them mercilessly. At a meeting of railway activists on March 10, 1937, he said: ‘There is no sector on the railway where Trotskyites are not at work. They have deeply penetrated all links of railway transport.’”
Back then, Lazar knew better than anyone that this was the absolute truth, but now it played no role. The game was already entirely different, and that was thanks to Khrushchev’s treachery—a treachery that betrayed not only Stalin, not only them, his former comrades, but the whole country, the entire Soviet people. Now he would be riding in a Soviet “Chevrolet,” his son would be living in America, and Soviet children would learn in school how unjustly poor Uncle Trotsky had been wronged; they would chew gum, drink “Coca‑Cola,” and watch Western films that taught them “sex, drunkenness, drugs, and how to betray their homeland.” This was the beginning of a terrible end.
Lazar looked at the pile of documents lying at Khrushchev’s left hand. Then he looked around at the other members. He had thought he was coming to a meeting where Khrushchev would be overthrown by a majority vote. And what happened? Khrushchev kept talking, and people listened in silence, time passed, and Khrushchev went on and on. Lazar felt the ground slipping from under his feet. Energy and strength were leaving him.
“How he had underestimated this short, fat little man!” Lazar thought.
He looked at Molotov. Molotov’s face was a mask of stoicism. Molotov understood perfectly well what was happening. Then Lazar shifted his gaze to Malenkov. He had ceased to be “Big Georgi.” Malenkov seemed to have lost all his presence and looked like a deflated balloon. Bulganin sat passively, true to his nature. Lazar tried to sense support among his “friends.” But everyone averted their eyes from him. Once they had all depended on him and been subordinate to him. Now these people had turned completely away. They were pushing a new “leader” forward and drowning the old one. They, too, knew how to survive in this world. “All power is for sale,” Lazar thought. He almost stopped hearing what was happening around him. Accusations against Lazar poured in from all sides.
“Lazar Moiseyevich used to say: ‘We fought and made a revolution so that workers and peasants could live better.’ But in reality he mocked the party and Soviet workers, who became afraid of their own shadows.”
“Lazar Moiseyevich did everything to seize power and use it. And he convinced himself and others that by doing so he was benefiting the state.”
“Lazar Moiseyevich bears responsibility for the death of twenty million Russians!”
Lazar glanced at Khrushchev. How times change! Lazar had pulled Khrushchev out of the mud, helped him to his feet, pushed him forward and protected him. And what did he get in gratitude? Apparently, he had taught him too well. For it is rightly said: “No matter how much you wash a pig, it will still get dirty.” Now Khrushchev pointed his fat, stubby finger at him:
“Your hands are stained with the blood of our party leaders and of countless innocent Bolsheviks!”
Lazar could bear it no longer; he jumped up and struck the table with his fist:
“Ah, you whore! You son of a bitch! You were always at my side! You carried out orders and gave them yourself. Your mother’s cunt gave birth to you. You yourself are covered in blood!”
Khrushchev broke into a broad smile—that was it! He had forced Lazar to defend himself, and that meant Lazar had lost. He waited for Kaganovich to calm down. Everyone fell silent. Lazar was breathing heavily. He stood there, his face crimson, his whole body trembling. Molotov tugged at his sleeve. He feared that Kaganovich’s heart would give out. At last, Lazar sat down. His chest was burning. Everyone looked at Khrushchev.
“Yes, I too have blood on my hands. But it is not the same thing. I only carried out your orders!”
Khrushchev deliberately stressed the word “your.”
“Need I remind you that at that time I was not even a member of the Politburo? Therefore, I bear no responsibility for those decisions. But…”
Khrushchev was no longer even looking at Kaganovich. Instead, he theatrically swept the room with his gaze. Now he would drive the last nail into the coffin…
“But you—do!” Khrushchev snapped.

For several days Lazar lived as if in a nightmare. Every minute he expected to be arrested. What was he to do? He wanted to talk things out, to speak with someone, but there were no listeners left. Khrushchev had routed them utterly. The question was whether Khrushchev would crush them. Lazar knew that the fate of Beria awaited him.

Lazar desperately wanted to talk with someone: Molotov had broken off all ties, Malenkov was morally and physically broken, Voroshilov and Bulganin had now defected to Khrushchev’s side. Even Maria, his wife, could not help. She knew nothing.

Now Lazar had to face misfortune one-on-one. He recalled that meeting in Mikoyan’s office when his brother Mikhail’s fate had been decided. What would he have done in his place? Could he have done the same? There is only one way out.

A few days later Lazar sat on a wooden chair with a hard back opposite a massive desk in a spacious office in the Kremlin. This had been Stalin’s office. He remembered that once the first meeting had occurred here with the man he would call «Koba». Back then the furnishings had been far more spartan. There had been almost no furniture then. Everything was made of wood, and an old, worn carpet.

Now a new bright Persian carpet lay in the middle. Along the wall now stood a dark-green leather sofa with two brown armchairs at its sides. In front of the sofa stood a round coffee table. New paintings hung on the walls: mostly fields and trees. The portraits had vanished. Only a black-and-white photograph of Lenin hung on the wall behind the desk.

Lazar felt unaccustomed on this side of the desk. Khrushchev sat comfortably in the armchair, his hands folded on his stomach and his stubby fingers interlaced. This was so unlike Stalin, who preferred to stand so he could better see what was before him. Stalin only relaxed when warming himself, rubbing his smoking pipe for warmth.

Lazar found it hard to speak. In essence, he was asking his former protégé not to kill him. He was not even asking, but begging. Lazar was ready to grovel at the feet of his former subordinate and kiss his feet. Khrushchev at first did not utter a word; he pretended to be busy with some business. He wanted to show Lazar that he was capable of firmly leading the country.

— You are probably surprised by my thoroughness? Lazar merely nodded. — Then, as old friends, I will share this with you. He pointed to the folders of papers lying on his desk. — You probably know that Pospelov helped me in my work.

Yes, Lazar knew this very well, for Pospelov was one of the party’s leading ideologists. First, in the 1930s, he had been head of the Pravda department; then, from 1940 to 1949, he served as its chief editor, and in the following years as director of the Marx–Engels–Lenin Institute. Pospelov-Fogelson somehow ended up in Khrushchev’s team and soared to the post of Secretary of the Central Committee of the CPSU and candidate member of the Presidium of the CPSU Central Committee. It was Pospelov-Fogelson and his people who provided Khrushchev with ideological weaponry and stood behind his back. At the same time Pospelov always remained director of the Institute of Marxism-Leninism, that bastion of Trotskyism, neo-Trotskyism and Zionism. It was they—the people responsible for international politics and ideology, that is, for implementing the ideological directives of the Zionist West. They were the chief editors of newspapers, television, radio and the remaining mass of workers responsible for ideology, culture and education. The young generation of neo-Trotskyists and Zionists did their dirty work. Leonid Brezhnev, Andropov and Andrey Gromyko wittingly or unwittingly contributed to the collapse of the Soviet Union. It was they who ensured a most-favored-nation regime for the activities of the rabid Zionists and neo-Trotskyists operating behind their backs. It seems that Andropov, who by nationality was, like Pospelov-Fogelson, a Jew, toward the end of his life apparently realized that the Zionists had deceived him and tried to reverse course, but again the Kremlin doctors stepped in—a never-failing trump card of the Trotskyists, neo-Trotskyists and Zionists. Haven’t you noticed that the press created a positive image in every way for the internationally oriented Andropov, while for the patriotically oriented Mikhail Suslov, for instance, a negative image as a «gray cardinal» and a «bad person»? In the mid‑20th century, with the emergence of the State of Israel, a turning point occurred when Zionism and neo-Trotskyism merged into a single whole and became the main leading political force of modernity, bringing about the collapse of the USSR and the establishment of a Zionist dictatorship worldwide. The ideology of socialism and communism, which was the original ideology of the Jewish International, was consigned to the archives as unnecessary. With the emergence of the State of Israel, the need to disguise Jewish interests as the interests of the working class and toilers of all countries disappeared.

• “But of course,” Khrushchev continued, “I managed to gather information not only about what you did, but also what you thought. Everything must be checked. You know that perfectly well. You were a good teacher. Even Uncle Lyovik and Morris could be proud of you.” Lazar’s jaw dropped… Khrushchev grinned smugly. Lazar had never seen him so repulsive. He leaned back in his chair and pointed a finger at one of the folders.
• “Yes, Lazar Moiseyevich, we found out everything we could about you and your family. This is a great merit of Comrade Pospelov. He is a great specialist in his field.” Khrushchev paused for greater effect.
• “You see, Lazar Moiseyevich, Pospelov is a Jew, just like you. Didn’t you know that? And I force one Jew to work against another, just as you did.” Very soon Khrushchev would learn that these “Pospelovs” are much smarter than him, and most importantly, they are everywhere. Khrushchev paused again.
• “Do you know that Pospelov’s real surname is Fogelson?!” Lazar’s eyes widened. Fogelson?! Some Fogelson had hung around Uncle Lyovik’s apartment in the Bronx, New York, and knew both Mikhail and Morris! Well, well! That’s work! Khrushchev stood up, walked around the desk, and stood next to Lazar’s chair to look down at him.
• “I have not forgotten anything. But I do not want to repeat the mistakes of the past. My offer is simple: you will be left alone if you and your supporters stop attacking me. You must understand and agree with me.” Lazar looked up from below into Khrushchev’s face. He saw that the executioner had removed his black hood.
• “You are already sixty-four, Lazar Moiseyevich. You have lived a long and stormy life. And you can prolong your life if you wish.” He leaned toward the desk and picked up some paper.
• “There is a vacancy for the manager of the ‘Soyuzasbest’ trust in the Sverdlovsk region. I do not need to remind you that in its field it is one of the country’s leading enterprises. No doubt you will head it and be satisfied.” Lazar rose heavily from the chair and barely straightened up. He looked into Khrushchev’s face and headed for the door. He gripped the door handle and opened it. Lazar wanted to say something, but the words froze in his throat. In the corridor, the guard saluted him. Lazar knew that he was in this office for the last time.

He was painfully seized by a desire to go to Kabany. By express train he reached Kiev and transferred to a local electric train. Only six stops separated Lazar Kaganovich from his birthplace. The station was now much larger. His name was clearly written on a wooden plaque. People passing by slowed down and whispered, but did not dare to approach. Lazar walked along the main street; he wanted to be alone with himself, but from the very express train an unfamiliar man had been following him relentlessly. Lazar knew exactly who this man was. At one point Lazar even nodded to him. It was no secret. Khrushchev wanted to know exactly what Lazar was doing at every given moment. The man was young, about twenty-five, no more. He was of large build and wore a wide-brimmed hat. Lazar recalled the time when he himself had been just as young and healthy. That was forty years ago. Lazar wandered through the streets. Everything seemed foreign and unfamiliar. Even traffic lights had appeared. There were new houses. There were probably four times as many of them as back then. It seemed that the greater part of the city consisted of factories manufacturing spare parts for armaments. One factory made rifle barrels, another made trigger mechanisms. What had once been a sleepy village was now a bustling industrial city. Lazar’s heart warmed. He felt pride that this place was now named after him. Lazar headed toward the spot where their house once stood, but there were no houses there at all. Now a single large building with a small sign on the side rose there. It was a brick factory. A dump truck leaking oil stood right where Mama Sasha’s vegetable garden had been. The brick factory building extended onto the lot where Uncle Lyovik had lived. Lazar saw two people reading newspapers right at the spot where Morris’s room had been. One of them smoked a cigarette, and the other scratched his balls. Uncle Lyovik, Morris… Memory carried Lazar back to those days in Kabany, when everything was completely different. He looked for the tree on which they had carved profiles and thrown stones at them. In place of the tree there were also new structures. A one-story brick house remained: first, a portrait of the Tsar had hung on it, and later, when the party committee was housed there and they hung a portrait of Lenin, no one dared throw stones at it anymore. Lazar involuntarily thought of Morris. He had always wanted to write to him. Lazar knew where Morris lived. The State Security had found his address. Morris lived in Philadelphia. He was a tailor and worked on “Tailor Street,” that is, the tailors’ street. Morris lived with his wife Hannah. They had four children, one of whom died from the “Cossack disease,” as Tay-Sachs disease, which affects only Eastern European Jews, is still called in America. Perhaps he should have written to Morris. Maybe it’s not too late? Better late than never. How he wished he could talk now with Morris, with Uncle Lyovik, Mama Sasha, Father Moisey… Lazar looked at the surrounding houses. One of the houses was “propped up” by the hefty fellow accompanying him, who would have been fit for work on a construction site. Lazar nodded to him.

• “Let’s go,” Lazar told him. “I’m leaving.” Lazar walked back to the station. The guy plodded right alongside him. Lazar stood and waited for the electric train, and looked at the plaque with his surname, swaying in the wind. He knew that it would soon be taken down.

The newspaper “New York Times” on July 4, 1957, reported without regret that Lazar Moiseevich Kaganovich was removed from all responsible posts and transferred to work in the provinces. The newspaper «New York Times» was now lavishing affection on its new favorite – Khrushchev. Lazar Moiseevich did not justify its hopes. On October 7, 1957, the same newspaper published an article stating that the town of Kabany, which bore the name Kaganovich, was renamed Novokashirsk. Eight other settlements that bore his name were given back their former names. The Moscow Metro named after Kaganovich came to be called the V.I. Lenin Metro.

EPILOGUE.

It grew dark outside the window. My body aches from sitting in one place for a long time, and my head is splitting. My eyes hurt. I am very tired.
Before me are the remnants of what we consumed over the past ten hours. The middles of the slices of black bread – we preferred the crusts, dried remnants of sausage, salmon skin, crumbs from raisin pie, and endless cups of tea.

The man rocking opposite me in a rocking chair with cushions says:

• You’re still young. Strength comes with age.
  I get up and stretch my numb legs. I must remember everything I’ve heard. He didn’t allow me to write anything down. Moreover, he checked that my pockets were empty. But our conversation is not over yet.
• And now what?
• Now what? Nothing. Do you think I’m going to call Andropov the moment the door closes behind you?
• I don’t know.
• But I know. Of course not. The KGB has nothing to do with this. But I will call Leonid. I’m obliged to inform him of your visit.
  He saw the fear in my eyes and smiled.
• Don’t be afraid, friend. Leonid is also from Ukraine, and he’s one of my protégés. He owes me a thing or two. He won’t touch you.
• Like Khrushchev did to you?
  Lazar frowns. That was a matter from the past, but the reminder is still painful.
• I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…
  He just waves his hand.
• No, no. Those are my problems, not yours. After all, Nikita is no more. Good riddance to him. But I’m still alive and butting heads.
  Then he quickly changes the subject.
• Do you know that I’m the district dominoes champion? Or maybe of all Moscow? Do you see those streetlights down there?
  He points out the window.
• I managed to get them installed right here a year ago, and that’s why I and other pensioners can play dominoes late into the evening.
• As you can see, I still have some power.
  I walk around the apartment, running my fingers over the furniture. The apartment is quite small. I try to imagine what remains in these two small rooms of the huge apartment on the prestigious Kutuzovsky Prospekt. No doubt the rocking chair was brought from the dacha he no longer has. On the wall, in a frame, hangs a photograph of a woman.
• That’s Maria. She died of cancer many years ago.
  He looks away.
• Morris is also gone. He died two years ago.
• I didn’t know if you would want to know about that.
• I always did, and I said so.
• I spoke with him a lot. Morris often remembered you and your whole family.
• He didn’t like what I was doing? – a hostile note creeps into Lazar’s voice.
  I keep silent, searching for the right words to answer.
• Yes, that’s true. He always maintained that a Jew must not go against another Jew. We are one people. Thus the Torah teaches.
  A long pause follows. Minute drags after minute, each seeming an hour.
• I don’t lack for anything, – he finally says, leaning back in the chair. – Every month I get 120 rubles in pension. I have enough savings to put money aside and live in comfort, though not without certain perks. And so what? I even take pleasure in having a row with the sales clerk at the grocery store around the corner. Stir up confusion and uncertainty, eh? Where do you think the expression “red line” came from? I invented it!
  He started laughing, trying to show his sense of humor. I imagine how difficult and harsh this man must have been fifty years ago. He undoubtedly struck terror into people. It’s not surprising that he stayed in power for so long.
• Maria often told me: “Lazar Moiseyevich, you make a performance out of everything.” Yes, I enjoy piling up obstacles.
  As I scan the room, I notice a photograph of Trotsky standing on the writing desk. He follows my gaze:
• Do you know what Trotsky often said? He said life is beautiful, only: “We must cleanse ourselves of the filth of the past, so that later generations of Jews may enjoy life.”
  He fell silent…
• And why don’t you write your memoirs yourself?
• I don’t know how to write, and there’s no point anyway. All people are divided into three categories: the masses, who will never know the truth, and the leaders, who know the truth, but it is so terrible and far removed from reality that their main concern is that no one else finds it out. And then there is a small number of people who try to find out the truth, but they will never have complete proof. The leaders carefully destroy all evidence of their criminal activities. I have fought long and hard in my life. One cannot speak of what is really happening or will happen. Events do not occur until they come to pass. One must bide one’s time. There’s nothing to be done.
• In your view, the future belongs to those who know how to bide their time?
  A mean expression spreads over his face. He rises from the chair and walks resolutely toward me.
• Life has no stencils. There’s no good answer to foolish questions. See for yourself. Look at the United States. That country is ahead of us in many ways. Americans live materially better than Russians, they fleece the whole planet. And we will always be enemies. And so it will be until your system collapses and the Americans join our socialist camp.
  I want to object, but he stops me. I can almost feel a kind of force emanating from him.
• History teaches us that. There’s nothing to be done. Remember, Lenin believed that any means can and must be used to alter the course of history, and we have those means.
  He looked at the books standing on the shelf.
• I’ve seen similar books in America as well. So some of you also understand our socialist concept. Humanity is a single whole, one body, but it constantly needs our surgical intervention. And no surgical operation takes place without incisions and blood. We must cut away everything that does not suit us. It’s an unpleasant procedure, but there’s nothing immoral about it. You see, everything that brings our socialism closer is moral in its very essence.
  He turns away and goes to the window. I rise from the chair and follow him.
• And you believe in this theory of human society for everyone?
  Lazar Moiseyevich looks out the window. Down below, the domino players are gathering. They’re already waiting for him. The streetlamps are burning. He points downward:
• Here in Russia, my dear nephew, we all believe it. I know what I’m talking about, we all believe it!

Many more things I wanted to ask him, but there was no time left. And I couldn’t get the massive marble blotter out of my mind. That was in the decisive episode in the Kremlin, when Stalin supposedly caught his foot on the carpet and, stumbling, fell, hitting his head against the table, so that his head was broken open. A strange fall at such a moment. Then Lazar immediately mentioned that he had taken the heavy marble blotter and broken the door of Stalin’s little cupboard with it. Thus, according to Lazar, the marble blotter and Stalin’s head were damaged at different moments in this episode. – But what if they happened at the same moment? What if one of them had struck Stalin on the head from behind with the marble blotter? Why did Lazar bring it up at all? Why did Lazar emphasize that particular fall of Stalin’s and that marble blotter? After all, it is utterly naïve to assume that Lazar would tell the whole truth to a man he is seeing for the first time in his life. And here is the very first obvious question: why was Stalin on the floor with his head broken? And the explanation that he simply fell, when he was surrounded by several people who had previously agreed to kill him and were feeding him rat poison – that is a highly forced version. Be that as it may, you couldn’t ask Lazar such a question. Some things can only be guessed at through the very emergence of the question. After all, that whole final incident began with Lazar’s speech against Stalin. So who did it? Who hit Stalin with the marble blotter? – Lazar?

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