RED TURNS GREEN

In this story, Kosarev, Shchusev, Starostin and, of course, Stalin are real historical figures, the remainder are my invention. The soccer match really did take place, under the conditions outlined in the narrative, including the precautions taken on Lenin’s Mausoleum. Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction.

I knew things had been getting bad. I’d heard rumours. Of course, being a loyal party member, I had immediately dismissed them. Funny, though, deep down, in the part of me that must remain forever secret, the part of me I keep suppressed as a form of self-preservation, I knew the rumours were true. The man is a monster.

There was that incident a few years ago. Was it true? One never quite knows with him. He’d ordered the building of a new hotel, the Moskva, close to Red Square. Of course, the architect had to be the best, so he chose Alexey Shchusev, designer of Lenin’s Mausoleum, and instructed him to design a building that was more a monument than a hotel; he wanted a classically decorated building. Shchusev thought he knew what he was doing; after all, he couldn’t have survived long as the darling architect of the Tsars, without being keenly aware which way the chill political wind was blowing at any given time; a political weather vane. This commission was a little different, though. Unusually, Shchusev was undecided but, to avoid any displeasure, he'd used the trick of submitting an asymmetrical design, intending the final choice to be made by someone else. The trick backfired, and when the plan for the building was returned to him, it had indeed been initialed as approved, but in the centre. Which half of the design had been chosen? Was that a deliberate ploy, or just an oversight? That’s the trouble with Josef Stalin, one never knows.

And, more recently, there were the rumours spreading about the terrible toll in human lives brought about by our new Moscow metro system. Construction started about five years ago, and the first part was opened in May last year. Muscovites think it’s wonderful; the first underground railway in the Soviet Union. We should be proud, we’re told. But thousands lost their lives digging the thirteen beautiful stations and eleven kilometers of tunnel connecting them. And all due to the whim of one man. We suffered under the Tsars. Then, we had hope, briefly, under Lenin. But now we have a new Tsar, worse even than the old royal family. He has ultimate control and, what’s more, the mechanism to keep it that way.

And now this! This latest madness! Of course, in comparison to the folly of an asymmetrical hotel or the numerous fatalities constructing an underground railway, it is trivial, but it does highlight the problem. Surely he must realise the efforts needed to bring his latest plan to fruition? The number of people that will need to be involved; people who have their own lives to lead; lives that are already hard enough, without having to bow to the whim of one man. Surely he must realise also the logistical nightmare he’s created for this plan of his to become a reality? And the organising of that plan, I discovered yesterday, has fallen upon me. Why me?

I work for Alexander Kosarev, leader of the Party’s Youth Organisation (or ‘All-Union Young Communist League’ to give its full title). I answer directly to him, and it is his wish that I take on this onerous task (“privilege”, I think he called it); a task he realises has the potential to turn sour.

My office is located in the State Historical Museum, and overlooks Red Square. The winter of 1935-36 is drawing to a close, and I’ve been given ten weeks to organise a unique and bizarre event, a new venture within ‘Physical Culture Day’ (an annual celebration started in 1931). I doubt anyone will die this time, but the whole thing is designed, I suspect, to demonstrate the absolute power one man can wield over an entire nation. Dictatorship is the ultimate expression of narcissism.

There’s that saying, ‘If Mohammed won’t go to the mountain, then the mountain must come to Mohammed’. It’s equally true here, ‘If Stalin won’t go to the football stadium, then the football stadium must come to Stalin’. And that’s the task that looms on my personal horizon, a task suggested by Nikolay Starostin, captain of the USSR football team, presumably to promote growth of the game in Russia. If I’m successful, Stalin, Kosarev and Starostin will take all the credit, and if I fail … well, let’s not think about that.

As the days and weeks pass, I am increasingly consumed with unanswerable and highly worrying questions associated with this exhibition football match I have been commanded to arrange for Stalin’s pleasure. What happens if a ball should fly into the Kremlin? Or, worse still, onto Lenin’s Mausoleum, where Stalin will be spectating. Or, … no, surely not, a ball wouldn’t dare hit him in the face?! Each terrifying scenario plays out in my mind, frequently in the quiet, lonely hours after midnight, when sleep is proving elusive. But, the main fear is that Stalin will not enjoy the demonstration game, despite our best intentions, and that he’ll vent his displeasure on those responsible. Me!

He’s known for his short attention span and ability to become bored easily. A full ninety-minute match is out of the question. Consulting with a small committee of colleagues, we agreed upon a maximum of thirty minutes, but with some special arrangements to keep Uncle Joe entertained. It then fell upon me to inform Kosarev of our plans.

As section leader, Kosarev has a larger office, with a more impressive view. So much for the equalities of communism! I knocked on the dark panels of his heavy door, and waited for permission to enter.

“Come!”

“Ah, er, good morning, comrade Kosarev. I have for your approval the plans for the special football match to be played for comrade Stalin’s pleasure at the end of our glorious ‘Physical Culture Day’.”

“What of it?”

“I, er, that is, we, er, … we feel it is prudent to initiate certain safeguards into the proceedings to ensure comrade Stalin does not become, er, … restless, during the event.”

“Safeguards?”

“Yes, we respectfully offer the following suggestions for your consideration.”

I handed to him a manila folder containing two pieces of paper outlining our plan. I held my breath as he scanned the pages.

He nodded throughout, in agreement, I hoped. But I knew there was a sting in the tail of the proposal. He paused after reading the first page.

“So, comrade, if I may summarise? You intend the match to be thirty minutes in length, and between teams from Dinamo Moscow and Spartak Moscow?”

“That is correct, comrade Kosarev.”

“Spartak, a good workers’ team, but Dinamo?” he muttered, half to himself, before adding in a venomous whisper, “NKVD thugs.” I pretended I had not heard; such selective hearing helps one survive in Russian administration.

He continued, “And you propose a full football pitch be made out of felt, and then laid on the cobbles of Red Square?”

“That is correct, comrade Kosarev.”

“Ingenious. I see also that the players will be instructed to make sure there is plenty of action. Plenty of scoring by both teams, corners, throw-ins, and so on, even a penalty. I assume the players of both teams will be in accordance with all this?”

“Of course, comrade Kosarev.”

He nodded again, and moved to the second sheet of paper. I held my breath.

Kosarev continued reading and nodding. Suddenly, the nodding stopped. I suspected he was reading, then re-reading, my final paragraph. He raised his eyes from the paper to engage me directly.

“Is this some sort of joke?”

“No, comrade Kosarev.”

He leaned back in his chair, and spent several seconds looking me up and down.

“I can understand why you are taking these precautions, in fact they are most commendable. But I fail to see why I have to be involved personally.”

I swallowed hard. “Because, comrade Kosarev, you will be stood right next to comrade Stalin throughout the match. There really isn’t an alternative.”

Kosarev sighed heavily. He knew I was right.

“So, if I have understood this correctly, I am to stand on the mausoleum, next to comrade Stalin, with a white handkerchief in my pocket. And, if I detect our leader is finding the match tedious, I am to wave this handkerchief in your direction, without him seeing it, so that you can arrange immediately, from the touchline, for some further action to take place on the pitch?”

“A perfect summary, comrade Kosarev.”

He threw the papers on his spacious desk, rose, and walked over to gaze out of the tall window overlooking Red Square. The stillness in the room meant we could hear clearly the horses’ hooves crossing the cobbled square and the distant barking of a drill sergeant. Eventually, he turned.

“I see no alternative,” he admitted, before adding grudgingly, “Well done. This was a difficult job, and I think you and your comrades have done the best you could.”

“Thank you, comrade Kosarev.”

“You may leave now.”

As I returned to my office, relief flowed into my being. Making Kosarev aware of these plans meant a higher figure was now involved and, more importantly, responsible. I had passed the buck. With the pressure off, I could now focus on planning the details.

But first, there was a little ritual I had to perform. I knew I was alone, nevertheless, I looked carefully around my office. One never knew. Paranoia stalked the corridors of power. Fear was the common currency. I checked the window too; a pointless action, performed only as a means to steady my nerves.

I sat at my desk, opened the left-hand drawer and removed my copy of the official red-bound diary kept by everyone in this building. I scratched a few bland notes and dates, blotted the page, then left it open on my desk top. I glanced once more around my office before reaching inside the same drawer to remove the false bottom. Underneath lay my blue-bound unofficial diary. I checked that the thin hair I had stretched over the diary was undisturbed; not the most fool-proof security device, but simple. With slightly quivering hands I removed the book that could, if discovered, prove to be my downfall at best, my death at worst.

With senses heightened, I opened to the next clean page, wrote the date at the top, and then scratched the following thoughts.

How can we hand so much power to one man? We see the German people willingly handing over control of industry and the military to one man, who undoubtedly will become a national dictator. Italy is heading in the same direction, too.

But, these dictators will seize control, either through terror or pleasure.

Stalin chooses terror; the people give him what he wants; all efforts are directed to the pleasure and whim of one man. And, if anyone should dare stand in his way, or even question his judgement, he will crush them.

Hitler chooses pleasure; he gives the people what they want; autobahns, more free time, art, and, worst of all, a so-called inferior race, upon which they can look down to feed their self-importance.

Stalin retains power because all opposition mysteriously disappears. Hitler retains power because all opposition is discredited through the press he controls.

It is my hope that future gen …

Approaching footsteps from the corridor outside curtailed my writing. I snapped shut the diary, and quickly slipped it into the secret compartment in the drawer base. The security hair could wait until any danger had passed. I slid the red-backed diary back in front of me, and fought hard to look as innocent as possible.

The footsteps then receded. I exhaled. Fear was a constant companion for everyone.

———————————

“We have a problem, a big problem.”

Normally calm and composed, some even said aloof, Ludmila strode across the wooden floor of my office while making her nervous announcement. The thumping of her boots ceased as she stopped at my desk. A document was then thrust in my direction, accompanied by the command, “Read.” I resisted the urge to remind her who was in charge of this section.

As I read the brief letter, Ludmila paced, a thumbnail pressed to her lips. The moment I placed the letter on my desk, she pounced, “Well?”

“It’s certainly a blow. It’s now the end of June, and so close to the event.”

“A blow! A blow! It’s a disaster. What are we to do?”

“First, we keep calm. Collect the others, Marsha, Ivan and Alexei, but don’t tell them anything. I’ll see you all in the meeting room in five minutes. It’s not a disaster but it does need immediate and decisive action. Remember, don’t tell them anything. I want to break it to everyone as calmly as possible. Promise?”

She nodded, then half ran out of my office, leaving the door wide open. I collected the troublesome letter, together with several other documents, and moved next door to await the arrival of my small organising committee.

Although she had kept her word, Ludmila’s nervous state had infected the others, and they arrived with tension lining their faces. The atmosphere in the room reminded me of that phony, far-too-peaceful lull preceding a violent thunderstorm.

“Thank you for coming at such short notice,” I began, although I knew they had had no alternative. “We have just received this letter concerning the football match.”

I glanced at Ludmila, her thumbnail was now between her front teeth. She avoided eye-contact. I continued, “To summarise, it states that the Dinamo team have withdrawn from the match. So, Spartak will have no team to play against. We have a week to solve this problem. Ideas?”

No one spoke, yet glances were exchanged. Alexei began with, “Does … he know?” We all knew to whom he was referring, and we all knew the potential consequences.

“Not that I am aware of.” There was a slight easing of tension in the room. “But,” I continued, “it will not be long until he does. So, we must act fast now to find a solution.”

They all nodded.

“What next,” asked Marsha.

“I suggest we return to our offices, spend some time in creative thought, and reconvene here in one hour. We must find a solution.”

Within a few seconds I was alone in the meeting room. I strode to the window and gazed at the splendor of St. Basil’s basking in sunlight, its colourful exterior a stark contrast to the drab GUM department store. Was Red Square really going to witness a soccer match?

Fear stalked the corridors of this building continually; behind the closed doors, conversations were rarely what they seemed. There were almost constant meetings, neatly typed agenda decorated noticeboards, while everyone knew this was a charade, that it was the unspoken hidden agendum driving everything. Yet, despite all the intrigue and angst, I felt strangely calm at this moment, confident almost.

I arrived at our meeting to find the others already seated. Ludmila’s thumbnail maintained its nervous connection to her lips, Alexei was sorting through a vast pile of the documentation that seemed so important to the running of anything official, Marsha waited patiently, sitting straight-backed in her chair like the former ballerina she was, and, in contrast, Ivan sat casually in his chair, a glass of tea in hand, staring out of the tall windows of the meeting room. I coughed and broke their individual contemplations, before joining them round the stout, wooden conference table.

“Do we have any thoughts?” I began.

Nothing.

Until Ivan, still staring out of the window, quietly said, “I have.”

“Go on,” responded Ludmila, with hope and anxiety fighting for control of her voice.

Ivan moved his gaze from the window to his colleagues around the table. He smiled. I was confident he had a plan. Ivan took a sip of his tea, and explained.

“We don’t have a problem, we have an opportunity.”

Ludmila immediately snapped, “What? That old platitude! We need action, not pleasant sayings.”

“Ludmila, please,” Marsha interjected evenly, “let Ivan finish.”

“Thank you, comrade,” said Ivan with a growing smirk, “I will continue. With only one team taking part, we now have more control over the match.”

“But how can one team play a football match?” snapped Ludmila, distain now the main component of her voice.

“Easy, the first team plays the reserve team.” Ivan leant back in his chair and resumed his window gazing. He had his back to us now, but I knew the smirk remained.

Alexei was the first to respond, nodding, smiling, and adding, “I see, yes.”

“This could work,” I encouraged. “Ludmila?”

We all knew the silence cloaked an internal struggle to overcome her pride. Eventually, “Oh, alright. Yes, fine. I suppose.”

Ivan turned to face us again, Ludmila in particular, “Was that an apology or a display of gratitude?”

Ludmila’s glower was all the answer she could give.

“Thank you, Ivan, I think that will work.” I continued in a level tone, “Ludmila, as liaison with the participants, would you please contact the Spartak club immediately to explain what we would like them to do? We have only one week before the game, so this needs arranging as soon as possible.”

I knew Ludmila’s grunt was the only recognition I would get during the meeting. But I knew also she was a proud, diligent worker, and would carry out this task to the best of her ability.

———————————

I had been holding weekly meetings with my planning committee, but these became daily as we drew closer to 6th July, ‘Physical Culture Day’. With four days to go, we sat around our planning table, sleeves rolled up, faces glistening with sweat, throats dry. Little air circulating from the small open windows. Summer in Russia can be more brutal that winter.

“Alexei, how’s the pitch?” I asked.

“The pitch itself is almost finished. We’ve had three hundred Spartak members working on it, sewing together sections of felt. It’s now the size of a full football pitch, and all that’s needed to complete it is to paint it green, and then add the white lines. We’re going to roll it across Red Square the day before the match, to check all is okay, and to mark out the lines.”

“Anything else?”

Alexei paused, before lowering his voice, “There have been complaints.”

“Complaints?”

“Yes, an increasing number of people are expressing the opinion, mainly in private you understand, that the felt would have been better used to make hundreds, even thousands, of valenki, shoes worn for the winter months. The current use of the material, just so comrade Sta… Just so someone can watch a football match, is seen by some as a great waste of a valuable resource.”

“Uncle Joe can go to …” began Ludmila.

Immediately, I cast a glare in her direction, cutting off the sentence. “I’m sure comrade Stalin should not be referred to in such familiar tones.”

Ludmila understood. Although the five of us had worked together for several years, and although we trusted one another, one could never be absolutely sure a comrade had not been turned to the secret side of the party’s machine. Distrust is a by-product of fear. I turned back to Alexei to complete his point. “I can assume these dissenting voices are anonymous?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes, comrade.”

“Well, it’s immaterial, the deed is done now. There’s no going back.”

The room, normally bustling with activity had grown quiet, as each of us on the committee considered the unwelcome possibility of another winter footwear shortage.

“Ludmila, how are things with the Spartak players,” I asked in a business-like manner to break the sombre air.

She coughed, sipped what was left of her water, and answered, “As you know, the A team will play the B team, but the coaches insist tackling must be very mild. It will be difficult enough for the players to keep their footing on an unfamiliar felt surface laid on top of cobbles, without them having to worry about injuries inflicted by someone from the same club.”

“I think we can live with that. Any more?”

“Yes, it has been agreed, within the club, that the final score will be four goals to three in favour of the A team.”

“Excellent. Now, Ivan, how are arrangements progressing for the spectators?”

Ivan perused the papers in front of him. I had no idea why, he knew every detail of the arrangements. I suspect he was a little nervous. “Er, by our calculations, we think we can accommodate ten thousand spectators in the stands. How many more will remain outside Red Square is unknown.”

“They will have to live with their disappointment. Won’t that be a bit of a squeeze, though?”

“Yes, but …”

We completed the well-worn phrase in unison, “… orders are orders.”

“Marsha, how is the liaison with the other sporting events?”

“I think I may have been given the easiest job. Our footballing event will be at the end of the day. The rest of the arrangements will be similar to the previous five years that we’ve had Physical Culture Day. The only difficulty will be clearing away the previous event with sufficient speed to ensure the felt pitch can be rolled out.”

“How many … helpers have you organised for this?”

“Three hundred should be sufficient, I think.”

“What,” exclaimed Ludmila, “three hundred people just to roll out a piece of felt?”

“It will be massive, it will be heavy, and it will need to be laid out straight and flat, without any bumps. We don’t want the players to trip and fall. Why don’t you take a look when we have the rehearsal the day before?”

———————————

The rehearsal went ahead but not without a few issues. The weight of the felt pitch had been underestimated, so more helpers were called in. Normal football boots were found to damage the felt, so the players were ordered to use indoor footwear. Attaching the goalposts proved problematic but, by the end of the rehearsal, we all felt this crazy undertaking might actually be possible.

Unknown to most, Ivan and I had confirmed that the waving of a white handkerchief from Lenin’s Mausoleum could be seen from the pitch side. Confident that all was now set, I returned to my office to complete some last minute administration.

As I sat at my desk, I couldn’t help but be drawn to my diary, the blue one, the one containing my true thoughts and feelings. The hair I had placed after the last time was intact. I opened at the page I had been unable to complete, read the dangerous, treasonous words written there in my own handwriting, and continued.

It is my hope that future generations will learn from the mistakes we are making here and now; that they will see the folly of believing the egocentric deceptions of one man. Isn’t each individual member of society of more value than the rapid completion of a metro system? Isn’t each individual’s freedom of more worth than the price of a ticket to a Saturday afternoon football match? We live in a socialist state where all men and women are equal. Yes, but now we are all equally burdened with serving the state and its figurehead.

But how does one fight back against such a system? It frustrates me that I cannot find an answer to this. All anyone can do is fight one indignity at a time, and hope that the sum of our uncoordinated efforts will somehow impact on the injustices carried out in the name of socialism, but are really for the benefit of one narcissistic man.

This time I was able to finish my reflections undisturbed. The blue diary was closed and replaced in its hiding place, complete with security hair. It had been a long day, the summer sun adding to an atmosphere already heated by anxiety at the coming event. Tomorrow, my team and I would have to make a few last minute preparations, but the bulk of the work was now behind us. We waited.

———————————

The day of the match continued the run of hot, dry weather in the capital. We had all been ordered to watch the parades in Red Square, to cheer enthusiastically and wave flags as patriotically as one can wave a flag. My compliance was guaranteed, not through any love of my country, but through fear of what my country could do to me.

There were small, last-minute details to attend to as the day wore on. We knew the match we had so carefully arranged would be the closing event of the day. Following the inevitable parade, consisting of giant portraits of Lenin and Stalin, endless displays of synchronised gymnastics, military-style march-pasts of identically clad sportsmen and sportswomen, floats contain a swimming pool and even a skating rink, our time had arrived. It struck me only now that our football match would be the only truly sporting event of the whole festival, the remainder being merely highly choreographed displays of strength and elegance. Stalin loved a good parade.

Soon, volunteers began to clear spectators from directly in front of the Kremlin, so that the arduous task of unrolling the pitch, which had been stored behind the trees in front of GUM department store, could begin. Then, the goalposts were erected at either end and, following a mock pitch inspection by the referee, out onto the pitch ran the two teams. The Spartak A team wore shirts with one hoop, while the reserves wore shirts with two. A large crowd had gathered to see this free match between some of the city’s most famous players. For the first time in the day, I sensed genuine enthusiasm from the spectators.

The teams lined up in their starting positions. As the referee raised the whistle to his lips, I glanced up to Kosarev, standing next to Stalin on the Mausoleum. We had agreed that, if possible, he would give a brief practice wave of his white handkerchief at kick-off. As the whistle pierced the warm afternoon air, a white fluttering caught my eye, like a dove descending on the gathered politburo dignitaries. The signal worked, meaning any boredom sensed on the podium could be counteracted by my instructions to the players to act out a pre-arranged event.

In the end, our worries were unfounded and our precautions unnecessary. Stalin loved the game, so much so that we extended play from the planned thirty minutes to nearly three-quarters of an hour, and Kosarev’s white handkerchief remained firmly in his pocket. By the end, we had managed to engineer seven goals for his pleasure, the A-team indeed winning by 4-3, with a spectacular final goal into the top corner.

As the day cooled into evening, Ivan, Aleksei, Marsha, Ludmila and I, exhausted by our efforts and our fears, shared a celebratory vodka back in the meeting room. It was the moment when teamwork is recognized, the exhilaration of a job well done. We congratulated ourselves, we had turned Red Square green, and made Stalin smile and applaud a game that he had only previously derided. We heard that his only comment was, “They played good.” We even discussed the possibility of a reward, until Marsha pointed out that maybe survival was to be our reward. I dismissed my team, and told them to go home to sleep.

The adrenalin that had been my support throughout the day was now waning, but still sufficiently strong to deny me rest. I headed back to my office, intending to stare out of my window, possibly with another vodka, and reflect on the day’s successes.

As I stood by the window, watching the lowering rays of the sun reflect the dancing dust in the air, I glanced at my desk. Walking over to it, I opened the left-hand drawer, removed the red diary, lifted the false bottom, and started to remove my blue diary. I stopped cold. The security hair was missing. My diary had been discovered. Was this the result of one of the random checks that had been increasing in frequency in recent weeks, or had I been betrayed? Ivan, Alexei, Marsha, Ludmila? No, surely not. While contemplating the enormity of this discovery, I heard the sound of purposeful footsteps along the corridor. There was to be no escape. It seemed, for me at least, and possibly for thousands like me, the terror was only now beginning.

Michael Smith is a British writer, based in Europe. The absurdities of life and the international nature of his day job continue to be rich sources of material. His short stories have been accepted for online publication by Fabula Argentea, Witcraft, Literally Stories, Heimat Review, The Hooghly Review, Winamop, Uppagus, The Expressionist Literary Magazine, Freedom Fiction Journal, Impspired, Fevers of the Mind, The Writers’ Journal, Who Let The Stories Out?, and Rosewater Productions Podcast. To date, he has self-published ‘Gruseltal’, a humorous novel, and two collections of short stories, ‘Fonts’, then ‘Songs’, all available from online bookstores. Author website: https://frucht-schleifen.weebly.com/