The Russian Century: A Hundred Years of Russian Lives

Russian Federation. To my surprise both groups come to an immediate understanding, find witnesses (young women from the secretariat) and surge into Kriuchkov’s office. Another group sets off to search Kriuchkov’s dacha where his wife has been weeping all morning. Yet another group sets off to search Kriuchkov’s apartment.

The phone rings. It is M.S. Gorbachev: “I have signed the edict appointing you acting chairman of the KGB. Take charge.”

I note the time—it is 1500 hours. To the constant reports (“they’re smashing windows . . .” “we can’t get in touch with the police . . .” “they’re about to topple the monument”) there is an added flood of congratulations on my appointment. Just in case. Life is becoming increasingly unbearable, but there is no time to think about it. My office windows look out into an inner courtyard and the noise of the crowd is heard dimly. How familiar the situation is. How horrible that it is taking place not in Tehran where some ten years ago I sat besieged, commanding the defenders, hearing the roar of the mob, the ring of shattering glass, the blows on the doors, gunshots . . . Horrible that it is happening here on Lubianka Square and that here, as in Teheran, there is no help coming.

But I am wrong. Two deputies of the Russian Federation appear in my office. It is their task to quiet the crowd should it turn violent. I write down their names with sincere gratitude—Leonid Borisovich Gurevich and Il’ia Mstislavovich Konstantinov. They have brought reason into the totally irrational world of my office.

There is a report that free vodka is being distributed from a truck in Serov Lane [near the headquarters]. But this has to be totally in the realm of fantasy—vodka is a valuable commodity and anyone would be happy to pay for it. Nevertheless, I have it checked. It turns out there is no distribution. (There is disappointment in the voice.) Things gradually clear up. There is no violent crowd on the square but rather a political rally which is discussing how to remove the monument. S.B. Stankevich [leader of a democratic faction] is in charge and the police are quietly maintaining order.

Slowly the white heat drops to a cherry red. Using the underground passageway I go to G.B. Ageev’s office in the old building. The windows of his fifth-floor office look out on the square. At the request of the organizers of the rally we have turned on the building’s projectors (“Don’t assault us. See how conscientious we are.”), but the square remains poorly illuminated. The crowd leaves a sizable empty circle around the monument. It is hard to estimate but there are several tens of thousands. People speechify, others shout slogans while two enormous self-propelled cranes take the measure of the monument. An ambulance drives onto the square but only to better illuminate the public execution of the founder of the secret police [Cheka], the first

328

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chekist. A public execution is not a new phenomenon for Russia. Though the scale is much grander with a monument, television will put things in the right perspective. It will be even more intriguing because the monument does not change its facial expression. Everything occurring is meaningless to it, and is simply the vanity of those who have not yet dissolved in eternal darkness. When you are executing a living person it is a different matter. In Iran they understood the difference well.

I force myself to watch. Do I feel anguish? No. Everything going on is the natural reckoning for near-sightedness, limitless power, for the self-indulgence of the leaders, for our sheep-like, mindless nature. The end of an era. But also the beginning of another era. The cranes rev up; the crowd bellows. There is the pop of hundreds of flashbulbs and “Iron Felix” firmly suspended by the neck hangs over the square while under the cast iron greatcoat the iron legs give a death shudder. You gave up your first earthly life for the wrong reasons, Mr. Felix Ed-mundovich, sir. Now posthumously you answer for the sins of your progeny.

The empty buildings of the KGB are silent and still. I have given an order to remove the guard details form the fourth and fifth floors of the new building. This was a maximum security zone where the offices of the secretariat, the leadership, and the chairman were located. And the long corridors look strange without the customary young lieutenants at all the entry points to the two floors.