Free Mother Russia by Robert Littell Page B

bangs it down on the stove. An instant later he pushes open the door of Nadezhda’s room again. “No matches,” he barks.
    Nadezhda, drying her eyes on her sleeve, comes out and finds them for him. She gestures him aside and preparesthree cups of camomile infusion, which she carries back into her room on a tray. Mother Russia, her eyes dry but red, is avidly skimming manuscript pages.
    Pravdin pushes a lump of sugar into his mouth and noisily strains his infusion through it. The act of drinking something warm seems to calm everyone down considerably.
    “And so?” Pravdin demands almost belligerently.
    “I’ll explain everything,” Zoya promises, turning page after page of manuscript. She shakes her head as if the motion will clear it. “It is a miracle,” she begins, “there is no other way to describe what has happened.”
    “You can describe what has happened,” Pravdin remarks impatiently, “by describing what has happened.”
    Zoya nods, collects her thoughts. “Where to start? The story begins with a Cossack novelist named Krukov, who served with the Whites during the Civil War. In 1922 I think it was, he was wounded and spent the next fourteen months convalescing on the estate of an uncle. During those fourteen months he was known to have written the rough draft of a long novel on the Civil War called The Deep Don. In 1923 the Red Guards finally brought the Cossacks to heel, arresting and summarily executing the White officers they got their greasy little paws on. Krukov made no attempt to escape; there is a story that he put on his uniform and sword and went out to meet the Reds when they arrived. At any rate, he was interrogated by a young Komsomol activist known only as Filipovich. When members of Krukov’s family attempted to find out what had happened to him, they learned that he had been put up against a wall and shot and that his manuscripts, which he kept in a small wooden trunk, had vanished.”
    Pravdin stares at the trunk on the floor.
    “Four years later,” Zoya continues, “a talentless short story hack named Ivan Filopovich Frolov—”

    “Frolov is the Filopovich of your story!” Pravdin interrupts.
    “Frolov published his epic, which he also called The Deep Don.” Pravdin starts to interrupt again but she motions him to wait. “Be patient; there is, God help us all, more. The book, a sizzling masterpiece full of passionate characters and breathtaking imagery, won for Frolov instant fame and fortune. But there were whispers of plagiarism, and two or three articles found their way into the newspapers abroad. To clear the air the Bolsheviks organized a commission in 1929 to investigate the situation and report on who was the real author of The Deep Don . The committee consisted of four writers and four editors, all members of the Party, to be sure.”
    “To be sure,” echoes Pravdin.
    “The matter seemed to be open and shut. Frolov was unable to produce his original manuscripts; he claimed they had been lost in the war. His only contact with Cossacks and Cossack life was his relatively short stint as a Red Army interrogator, though he denied ever meeting a Cossack named Krukov; his few short stories that had been published showed no hint of the brilliance or imagery that mark every page of The Deep Don . Krukov, on the other hand, had lived among the Cossacks all his life. Unlike Frolov, he had personally taken part in all the battles described in the novel. And his published works made it obvious that he was more likely to be the author of The Deep Don than the young pretender Frolov. The only thing against Krukov was that his manuscripts had disappeared during the war too—shortly after his interrogation by the Komsomol activist Filopovich! That’s where matters stood when the Commission counted noses. The result surprised no one: seven to one to uphold Frolov’s claim of authorship.”
    “And the eighth?” asks Pravdin.
    “Ah, the eighth. The eighth member, a gentle