So I can’t say it came as a surprise when the Chekist buttonholed me in my dressing room after rehearsal one night and announced, We are eager to show our gratitude for your loyalty to Stalin and the Revolution. It isn’t every day that someone delivers evidence of treason written out in the traitor’s own hand. Several propositions rolled off the Chekist’s tongue. An external passport and authorization to travel to Paris or Rome? Better roles in bigger theaters? A monthlong all-expenses-paid vacation at one of those plush Black Sea hotels frequented by the nomenklatura? I favored the visitor with one of what Mandelstam called my shamefaced glances. I was only doing my duty as a Soviet citizen, I demurred shyly. I ask for nothing. The Chekist, an older gentleman whose lips barely moved when he spoke, smiled as if we shared a secret. Several gold teeth in his lower jaw glistened with saliva. Surely there is some service the state can offer you to make your life easier, he insisted.
