Operation White Birch - Part 7

Setting Up Home

Hello there, dear old and new subscribers! May you all be blessed with health and a good mood.

This chapter is a tad longer than usual, but you can handle it, I’m sure. Please, read the previous chapter, in order to remember what it’s all about:

Operation White Birch – Part 6.2

We arrived at Finland Station just in time to see the Helsinki train stop. Baranov showed his card to an attendant who brought the three of us to the goods yard. We found a big brown leather trunk with metal reinforced corners, the kind you’re more likely to see on a Belle Époque ocean liner than in a Soviet railway station.

Baranov opened all the locks with the keys provided by Lisitsyn, lifted the trunk lid, gave a quick look inside, and closed it again.

“Sir, I’m supposed to check the content and get rid of anything unnecessary and improper, as per comrade Lisitsyn’s orders”, I said.

“I’m your superior, and you have to follow my orders. There’s nothing remotely interesting in there, just books and reading stuff. Misha, fetch a luggage trolley, and let’s go home. Lunch time!”

“But sir, I was explicitly asked…”

“And I’m explicitly telling you no…”

“Miss, if I may interject”, said Misha, “I think it’s better to check the materials at home, without haste. You can’t get rid of inappropriate literature in here, too many prying eyes.”

“Well said, young man. Hey, these damn books weigh a ton! Misha, you lift the trunk on the trolley, there’s a good boy.”

Misha lifted the trunk like it were a snuff-box. Baranov patted him on the back. My spidey senses started to tingle.

On the way home, Baranov was waxing lyrical about the satisfaction of a job well done, whereas I – my irritation at being overruled quickly forgotten – was stealing glances at our driver. He doesn’t look it, but boy, is he strong! And seems smart and polite too, and what beautiful hands he’s got, and eyes, and smile…Oh gosh, he’s looking at me. Cool down, stupid girl, keep it professional!

“While we are here, sweet cheeks”, Baranov said, “Let me exploit that presumed intuition of yours to discuss a matter of the heart. You remember Miss Lebedev, right?”

Katya! How could I ever forget her? She bid me a long, steamy farewell before my trip to Leningrad.

“Well, our relationship got cold, and I was wondering whether you know the reason. Is she seeing another man, a younger one, perhaps? I had her watched, but she hasn’t had any gentleman visiting her lately. I know you’ve become friends, and that you’ve spent several nights at hers. Hasn’t she told you anything?”

“You had her watched? And me!?”, I asked, my face burning.

“Of course I did, what else can a man in love do? Especially if this man has the means to do it. She looks even more beautiful these days, and I thought it could be because of me, but she always has some excuses not to share my bed. That’s why I got suspicious. But, if she spends her nights with you, I can rest easy.”

“Well, yeah, I guess…”

“Do you remember when we both spent New Year’s Eve at Katya’s? I fell asleep on the couch, then I woke up in the night, and went to her room. The door was locked, so I peeped through the keyhole, and I saw the two of you fighting and giggling under the duvet. What were you blabbering about? Were you two exchanging tricks and tips on how to make your man happy? I approve. Thank you for keeping her company, by the way, I was too drunk to perform, in any case.”

“I wonder what surprise we’ll find in our new home, sir”, I tried to steer the conversation away. I’d just met Misha, and he already knew more about my love life than I’d have been comfortable to share on first acquaintance.

I caught a glimpse in the rear-view mirror, and saw him stifling a laugh and…did he just wink at me?

Finally, we arrived at the house on Griboedov Canal. It was an ivory-white three-story building, quite well preserved, located close to the intersection of Nevsky Prospekt and – I was happy to see – of the striking Art Nouveau Singer House with the Dom Knigi, the House of the Book, one of my favourite bookshops.

We left the car, and entered the flat on the first floor. Actually, it’s the ground floor, but Russians and Americans call it the first. There, I met Yura, who was part of the house security team with Misha. He was a tall, imposing young man, with a red beard and the kindest eyes I’d ever seen. He looked shy, blushed, and greeted me politely.

The Singer House still hosts the Dom Knigi bookshop, and nowadays also a café. On the left, Nevsky Prospekt, on the right, the Griboedov Canal and our house.

The four of us went upstairs, where we found a spacious living room with a kitchen corner, and a big wooden library. The table at the centre of the room was already laden with fragrant, inviting food.

The Brit was sitting on a chair, next to the bookshelves. He looked much more cheerful and relaxed than when we’d left him at the Big House. He was exchanging laughs and pleasantries with a tiny, delicate lady in her late 40’s, vivacious and good-looking with her raven hair and black eyes.

“Finally, you’re all here! Meet Mrs Gol’dberg, our gracious host. She runs our new home and her cooking is the stuff of legend all over the country.”

Baranov went pale and instinctively covered his crotch with his hands. “M…Maria Moiseevna?”

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Lieutenant Colonel Baranov. Long time no see, comrade. I trust you are well? Still frisky? How do you like your surprise?”, said Mrs Gol’dberg. She then turned to me with a beaming smile: “And what’s your name, sweetheart? Come, sit down and let’s eat. Boys, please, you’re more than welcome, there’s enough for everybody. Except for a certain someone, if he doesn’t promise to behave.”

“I promise, Mrs Gol’dberg, I mean it. I apologise once again. I don’t know what came over me that day”, replied Baranov, red in the face and with his eyes cast down.

“Oh, but you do. Well, let’s leave the past in the past where it belongs, and turn a new leaf. Bon appétit!”

Maria Moiseevna, as she asked us to be called, had prepared a welcome feast for our first meal in Leningrad. There were zakuski of blini with red caviar, pickled cucumbers and mushrooms, dressed herring, followed by her famous pelmeni, and crowned by the creamiest Napoleon Cake ever. We made a toast with vodka to Mrs Gol’dberg, then to each other, to our new house, to Leningrad, to the USSR and, because we ended up feeling tearful and full of universal love, to the whole of humankind.

“Thank you so much for this wonderful meal, Maria Moiseevna. Let me clear the table and do the washing up. You’ve done more than enough, sit comfortably and have some well deserved rest!”, I said. “I’ll help you”, said the Brit.

“You’re welcome, golubushka, I’m glad you liked it. I’m going home, then, I’ll see you all tomorrow. There’s no need to drive me, I live nearby, thanks to comrade Baranov”, Mrs Gol’dberg winked at us, Baranov went all red again. “Oh, Misha, you want to walk with me? I can’t say no to such a charming young gentleman. Enjoy your evening, everybody, and good night!”

Yura and Baranov went down to the boys’ for a game of chess.

The Brit and I swiftly cleared the table. I wore an apron, and found a bottle of Fairy liquid and two pairs of brand new yellow Marigold gloves under the sink, an unusual but pleasant find. Someone apparently had thought things through, when furnishing the house. I went on to soap the plates, while the Brit washed them under the faucet, and dried them up.

“Listen now”, he said, switching to English, as we used to do, when there were only the two of us around. “I did a proper check, when I arrived here, and something’s amiss: the house is not bugged.”

“And why is that bad?”, I replied, puzzled.

“Because! Every single one of our offices and safe houses are bugged, almost every room. They used to bug the toilets too, but then stopped, because people would congregate there and run the water, in order not to be heard, and so it was deemed useless. I thought they would bug all the rooms to death here as well, but they didn’t. Not yours, not mine, not Baranov’s, not the boys’s. Not this room, not the bathrooms. I should be glad to have privacy, but this worries me.”

“They wouldn’t have forgotten about it, would they?”

“Exactly. So why didn’t they do it? Unless this is a bread-joke situation.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this¹:

A man is waiting in a bread line and, after hours of waiting, gets to the front, only to discover they’re all out. Frustrated, he loudly curses the government. A retired KGB officer hears him and says:

- In my day, if you had said that, we’d have you shot!

The man goes home, and when his wife sees that he’s empty handed, she asks:

- Did they run out of bread again?

The man shakes his head and says:

- It’s worse. They’ve run out of bullets.”

“Ha ha, very good. Oh my God, are they running out of bullets?”

“If they haven’t yet, they might soon.”

“How do you know that joke?”

“I know loads of them, got entire collections.”

“Should you have them? Isn’t that unwise?”

“I memorised them all, don’t you worry. But I’m afraid that ‘something wicked this way come’, that some big trouble’s going on in Moscow, and they might use us as pawns for God only knows what ends. It wouldn’t be the first time either. We’re expendable, us two, after all.”

“But they wouldn’t…”

“They would.”

“They couldn’t…”

“They could.”

“So what we are going to do? Going along with their plan, until we find out what’s really going on?”

“Let’s see what happens in the next couple of months.”

“Why are you talking in English, what are you two scheming about?”. Baranov was back in the living room, followed by Misha and Yura, who were carrying the trunk.

“Let’s go upstairs to my room, and have the grand opening of this damn trunk, once and for all!”

“Sir, let’s open it here, it’s so heavy!” I felt sorry for the boys.

“What good is being in charge, if I can’t make people do as I please? They aren’t made out of glass, these two strapping youths. And my room is the most appropriate place for this solemn occasion. Chop chop!”

Baranov’s room was the biggest in the whole house, furnished with a plush Afghan carpet, a dangerously oversize bed, a substantial writing desk, and book shelves destined, alas, to remain empty.

“Look at this beast, sweet cheeks, how about a good ol’ roll in the hay in here later, you and I? No? What’s your excuse today, bubonic plague? Gather around, let’s unlock this treasure chest.”

The trunk wide open, we peeped inside, and Baranov started to take out its content.

“Foreign books, I can’t understand a word. What’s this?”

“The Hidden Persuaders – an examination of how advertisers and politicians use psychological methods in order to…”

“I get it. Boring. What’s this one?”

“La psychologie des foules²…Would you like to know more, sir? Of course, you wouldn’t.”

“Oh, look, sir”, I said to the Brit, “There are also a dozen Bibles.”

“Right, let me see. It’s the King James Version.”

“May I keep one, sir? I know it’s a translation masterpiece, I’d like to analyse its style.”

“Studying the Bible!? Like you need to put on any more airs. Now I’ve really heard it all. Fine, keep it, be my guest”, huffed Baranov. “Hey, but what do we have here? There’s at least a half decade of Playboy issues. Finally, some good stuff worthy of my attention. Keep your hands away, you prudish cold-blooded woman, they’re mine, finders keepers.”

“Sir, with all due respect, I’m afraid I have to destroy all those magazines.”

“With all due respect – is that your new catchphrase? I’ll take responsibility for these. My Cuban cigars and your caviar aren’t going to pay themselves, and these are like gold. They will be sold, after I’ll have carried out a thorough inspection. Boys, care to share them with me?”

Yura turned as red as red borscht, and mumbled something about his wife.

“You’re married, not blind, come on!”

“But the children…”

“Ok, ok. Misha, what about you?”

“No thanks, sir. I’ll pass.”

“What, don’t you like the ladies?”

“I do, in fact I love them. But I don’t need visual aids, I have a rich imagination.”

“Oh, to be young again! Well, suit yourselves, guys. Now, if you don’t mind, I need some me-time. Miss January 1985, I’m all yours tonight!”

We bid goodnight to each other, and went to our respective rooms. I was thinking how much I would have loved to feature in Misha’s wildest fantasies, but I took a look at my Bible, and felt full of steely resolve again not to indulge in such inane, unbecoming dreams.

My room was small, but cosy and clean. I had a writing desk and shelves for my books. The bed was covered with a soft duvet. And I had a tiny bathroom all to myself! On the shelf under the mirror, I found a new tube of lipstick in Young Pioneer Rose³ – a fashionable hue – and a flacon of highly sought-after Red Moscow⁴ perfume. I was touched by the kind gestures, Maria Moiseevna had carefully thought of every single detail.

1. I found this joke in Konstantin Asimonov’s fantastic Substack:

The art of a Russian joke: anekdoty about perestroika, the nineties and Russian capitalism

2. I found out about this book in the following excellent article. Long read, but worthy of your time:

The Book That Manipulated the Twentieth Century

3. I made it up.

4. This one’s real.

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