Thriller

I want to skip over the events of one more filming day—or rather, night—which was the last one in the 1956 block, and move on to certain subsequent events that were crucial for my psyche and my self-awareness. These events took place when the camera crews had gone on vacation, and a relative lull settled over both the Institute and the studio.
To catch my breath, I’ll first describe the rules of this "special regime" facility. Once you passed through the checkpoint and they verified you were dressed appropriately, and your pass was stamped by departments "G" and "K," the main rule was this: do not break character. You had to adhere to the "Institute Staff Dictionary." Departments like G, K, R, P, and so on were the names for various studio units that couldn't be called by their real names inside the Institute. The agreement was that you had to live as if this were the actual USSR, not a film set. For example, the Wardrobe was "Department K," the Director's Department was "Department R," Makeup was "Department G," and the Kitchen/Catering was "Department P."
In Department P, there was a strange girl named Katya. She wore modern clothes because she didn't need to enter the Institute itself. Her job was to unpack the groceries delivered to the Institute, moving them from modern packaging into foil, glass, paper, or boxes with Soviet labels printed on-site. She even scrubbed modern stamps off chicken eggs, holding them under a stream of warm water for so long that the egg white near the shell would actually begin to cook. Nothing of the modern world was allowed to remain inside the Institute.
I had read online about fines for non-compliance, and there were real-life rumors about people being fired. I didn't want to experiment with being terminated, so I diligently tried to conform. I preferred to speak as little as possible to avoid saying anything "wrong."
By the day I want to describe now, I was already a resident of the Institute. I had moved my belongings from the rented apartment in Kharkiv to the studio, where they were hidden; for a long time afterward, I’d occasionally go back to them to use something. That’s also where I kept a sum of money stashed for a return ticket to Moscow, just in case. Although I was sure then—and am sure now—that they would have bought me a ticket themselves if I had firmly said, "I’m quitting the project," I kept that money aside so that if anything happened, I wouldn't have to explain myself, justify my departure, or listen to persuasions and lectures.
And so, dressed this time not in that shameful blue housekeeper’s dress, but in my "dressy" lilac one—the one I’d worn to Trifonov’s birthday, the casting, and my visit to his room—I headed into the Institute. I went to D2, where I had already spent nights and was, essentially, already living with a bare minimum of necessities.
Radmila and Teodor had gone away that day (Teodor for good, as it turned out), and I had the chance to live in that vast apartment alone. I could photograph whatever I wanted—though, unfortunately, without a tripod or a self-timer (otherwise, I would have captured some incredible things)—I could sing, dance (to the Soviet music forced upon us from the outside, but still), take baths, and heat up delicious cheese sandwiches (which, sadly, I burnt in the oven on the very first day). I could do whatever came to mind. I have always loved solitude.
But on the way to D2, I was joined by Nastya, my former rival, who was now working as Trifonov’s secretary. She was so sweet and sociable that out of politeness, I invited her into the house with me for some tea. We entered and admired the interiors while no one was there to disturb or—it seemed—control us.
However, after a while, Trifonov entered the house under the pretext that he needed to work with his secretary, Nastya. He imitated some kind of activity; they sat at the table in the living room in the process of "working," while I hovered nearby. At some point, I realized that Trifonov was harassing Nastya, and she was tentatively trying to steer the interaction back into a more professional channel.
I sat down at the table with them, calculating that he would be too embarrassed to continue his advances in front of a witness. It didn’t help. Then Nastya started talking about how we were CIA agents and wanted to create our own department, "The Hard Sign" (Tverdiy Znak). I understood this as her unique attempt to distract Trifonov from his persistent groping—to stop it by turning it into a joke. I sat right there beside them.
I’ve only just remembered that right before this, when Trifonov first entered the house, he assumed the air of a master and asked me to go to the buffet for some juice. Oh, how it infuriated me later on! I even bought it with my own money. Nora had already paid me an advance in Soviet rubles, which, of course, bore no relation to the actual salary Asya had promised me in the modern world. Still, it felt stinging.
After I returned with a three-liter jar of juice and witnessed the harassment, I started racking my brain for a way to help Nastya escape. With my current experience and character, I would have screamed at Trifonov, asking what the hell he thought he was doing while the masters were away—ignoring all the "dust" he tried to throw in our eyes, pretending to be an important man of business in his gray suit and Soviet scientist glasses, acting as if he had the right. But back then, I was a shy, intimidated little mouse.
I don't remember exactly how we managed to seize the moment, but I took Nastya by the hand and led her swiftly to my room on the first floor. It was a room with a massive dark wood wardrobe and Nora’s luxurious, unusual vanity table, covered with combs, beautiful perfume bottles, and other fine props—though it’s hard to call them props; everything was real, nothing was a fake. There were also two metal beds for the servants with flimsy mattresses and pitiful but clean dark-blue wool blankets and cotton sheets. I had already slept on one of them, sinking into the springs.
Once inside the room, Nastya and I quickly shut the heavy double wooden doors. We scrambled to find something to bar them and found a racket, which we wedged through the door handles so they couldn't be opened from the outside. Trifonov began to batter the door from the hallway, not caring at all that he might damage or even break something. He would leave for a while, then return, making futile attempts to burst into the room where we were hiding.
After a short time, we realized the racket wouldn't hold forever; sooner or later, he would break in. We opened the window and climbed out into the street. Running over coarse gravel in nothing but slippers, we headed toward the gates beside D2. It was dark and eerie there; usually, cars exited through those gates, and guards in black KGB uniforms patrolled the area. We stumbled upon one guard and pleaded: "Save us."
We explained the situation. The guard turned out to be a decent man; he hid us and didn't give us away. However, he warned us: "Girls, you're wonderful, but I'll be in trouble if anyone finds out I covered for you—I'll be fired on the spot." While we were hiding, he walked toward D2 and then returned to us: "That man in there is a real beast. I'll watch until he leaves; I’ll distract him."
After a while, Trifonov headed toward the Office, and we realized we could return to the apartment. Once back, our first thought was to thank the guard and give him a chocolate bar. He said, "Thanks, of course, but don't blow your cover or mine—just get out of here." He took the chocolate.
We returned to D2, finally relaxed, and went up to the second floor, periodically glancing from the balcony toward the Office to see if Trifonov was coming back. Suddenly, we spotted him in the distance, flanked by two guards, heading swiftly back toward us.
Note this, reader: the entire film crew, led by Jürgen, had gone on vacation. Everything that followed wasn't for the sake of cinema; it was happening just like that, on its own. They were approaching fast. We scrambled, looking for a place to hide. We found a small closet between Dau’s and Nora’s rooms, entered through a black door. Inside this closet, it turned out, one could easily observe both Nora’s and Dau’s rooms through one-way mirrors. We hunkered down and listened to the commotion already unfolding downstairs in the hallway. My heart was leaping out of my chest then—and it’s leaping now, as I describe this thirteen years later.
They were coming up to the second floor; it was clear we couldn't hide for long. And so it happened. The door to our refuge swung open, and Trifonov’s voice rang out: "There they are."
Each of us was immediately seized by the arm by a "KGB man." That was when I felt what a "grip of steel" truly means, in the most literal sense. We tried to talk to these men, to appease them, to convince them to see our side, but they were absolutely firm in their intentions. They didn't even give us time to find our shoes or handbags with our passes as we passed through the hallway (Trifonov had hidden all of it deep in the wardrobes and even poured some liquid over them).
They led us away in our slippers while onlookers watched with interest. Meanwhile, the "KGB men" taunted us: "You’re going to be shot now, you realize that? What have you done!"
Nastya asked: "Are they really going to shoot us?"
I was amused by these toy threats, yet at the same time, it was breathtakingly thrilling. I wasn't scared at all.
Thus, we reached the Office. Trifonov had managed to slip away unnoticed by then. And we were led through the first floor of the studio to… where would you think?… into the prison built by Ilya Khrzhanovsky.