Bombshell by Max Collins (most life changing books .TXT) 📗

head. You could only trust him like … like you could trust ice in late spring.” Nikita heaved a world-weary sigh.

She said nothing, waiting for him to go on.

He did. “Lenin warned Central Committee. On his deathbed he say, do not pick Stalin as my successor! Because he knew this man was ruthless and would abuse power. But old fools do not listen. Imagine this! To not listen to father of our country! If George Washington said, ‘This is man you should not trust,’ …

you would not trust that man, am I right? … But they thought they knew better than Lenin.” He smirked disgustedly, adding, “As my people say, long whiskers cannot take place of brains.”

Again Marilyn said nothing, sensing his need to talk.

“So many, many Russians died in purges,” Nikita said, shaking his head, sorrow in his eyes. “Best we had—doctors, teachers, engineers … all killed as ‘Enemies of People.’ You see, Stalin—he was afraid of intelligentsia. They might question his directives.”

He smacked a fist into a palm, making her jump a little.

“And military!” he said, eyes flaring. “He executed most of Old Guard in Red Army—honest men, good men—men I have serve with, who go to their deaths not knowing why. I tell you, dear friend, it is wonder we defeated Germany.”

She was shaking her head in dread. “But … but how could he be so … vicious … ?”

“How could Hitler murder so many? When madness starts, it is hard to stop.” Nikita lowered his head. “I should have seen it, what was happening. My lids were open, but my eyes … my eyes, they were closed.”

Marilyn rested a hand on his shoulder. “You mustn’t blame yourself for what somebody else did.”

“Once,” Nikita continued, as if he hadn’t heard her, “I go to see Stalin. I say, ‘Comrade, I have reports that the people in Ukraine are starving, we must do something.’ Well, Stalin did not want to hear that collective farms were not working. ‘Nonsense,’ was all he said. So I got on train and go down there.”

She listened intently, fascinated by the frankness of this man, this powerful man.

“When I arrive,” he was saying, “I start to … poke around. I go to this rundown shack outside village. There I find woman standing behind wood table with butcher knife in hand. On table is slab of cut-up meat and she poke knife at me, afraid I will take her meal. I say, ‘Dear lady, I do not want your meat. I want to know how you are and if you have food.’ She looked up at me with crazy eyes and she say, ‘Already I have eaten Little Maria. Now I will salt down Little Ivan. This will keep me for some time.’ ”

Marilyn gasped.

Nikita nodded at her unspoken question. “It is as you imagine: this woman had gone crazy with hunger and butchered her own children.”

“But … but I can’t imagine,” Marilyn said, horrified, covering her mouth with splayed fingers.

Nikita sat, frozen with the terrible memory.

After a moment, Marilyn managed to ask, “What … what did you do then?”

“What would any man do? I ran outside and emptied stomach in snow.” He let out a breath, swallowed. “Then I go back to Moscow to see Stalin. But my plea for more food to Ukraine, it falls on deaf ears. He was rude and most insulting and called me dubious character.” Nikita looked down at the hands in his lap. “Millions of people died of starvation that winter … and many of dead became only food the living could get.”

“Oh, dear God,” Marilyn gasped.

“God?” He raised an eyebrow. “We have proverb—‘Pray to God if you must … but take care of your garden.’ ”

Marilyn, horror-struck, said nothing.

“Afterward,” Nikita went on, “Stalin began to look at me as troublemaker. I find out later Secret Police going to take me away, and have me eliminated … but I come down with pneumonia, very ill, in bed for six months. By time I get well, Stalin has change of mind—that happened with him, many times—he even reassigned me back to Ukraine.”

Marilyn felt numb; she hugged herself, shivering. “Someone should have killed him.”

Nikita laughed hollowly. “Ah, this coming from citizen of country where there is no assassination? … Forgive me … I hurt your feelings … I am sure some tried to kill Stalin. But Stalin, he was very clever in his madness. He rarely left his dacha—which had more and more locks on it each time I came. Whenever I would return to Moscow, he would have me over for dinner. I would dread these affairs, because he would say, ‘Oh, look, Nikita Sergeyevich, here is your favorite dish—herring.’ That meant I was to taste it to see if it was poisoned. If I stayed upright in my chair, then he would have some, too.”

Wide-eyed, Marilyn asked, “Did you always taste it?”

“How could I not?” Nikita said with a fatalistic shrug. “These dinners, they were frightful. They go on for hours, because Stalin, he was terribly lonely. Usually American movie afterward, brought by Minister of Cinematography, fellow named Bolshakov. He was supposed to interpret, but didn’t know English, so instead he would say, ‘Now the man’s leaving room … now he’s walking across street,’ and Stalin would yell, ‘I can see that, you idiot! But what does he say?’ So I was ordered to translate.”

She smiled a little, the first time in a while. “Did you ever show any of my films?”

Nikita shook his head, made a face in the negative. “Stalin had huge library of films, but mostly he watch cowboy pictures. He would curse at them, but always order another—cowboys, only cowboys.”

“Do you screen anything besides ‘cowboy pictures’?”

“I never show cowboy pictures! … Except John Wayne. John Wayne, I like… This summer I saw your Some Like It Hot.” He gave her a shy, sideways look. “If I may say … you were prih-krashs-nuh!”

Marilyn beamed; the word wasn’t included in her limited Russian vocabulary, but