The Commissariat of Enlightenment by Ken Kalfus

coach in the manner, perfected by generations of servitude, of someone who had been on his way into the coach all along. As a faint drizzle softened the electric glare of the lights around the station and penetrated his coat, Gribshin waited at the foot of the stairs, confident that the coin had fallen into its slot. He waited twenty minutes. The door finally slid open and the Countess herself appeared at the door of the carriage.
    Although she stood at the top of the steps above him, elevation was not the source of her dominating bearing. She was broad and bullnecked, the inheritor of noble blood, the Countess who had matched the Count strength against strength for half a century. In the absence of a smile vanished any history of a smile. Gribshin had underestimated her. She testified to a resoluteness that contradicted everything he had been told. The fact that she had tried to kill herself more than once had left no mark of mental imbalance upon her doughy, gray face. In her gaze he found total comprehension of her situation, even of the ludicrous image that she presented to the public.
    “Yes? What is it?”
    Appealing to her aristocratic vanity, he replied in French: “M. Meyer sends his warm regards.”
    The young man had hoped to be invited to board the railway carriage. He was looking for an intimate setting, one that would cast him in the most trustworthy and compassionate light to make an audacious proposal. But the coldness of her expression warnedthat if he were to ask to be admitted now, she might refuse and escape within the coach. As the drizzle intensified and the sounds of the railway station became muffled, Gribshin felt the swelling imminence of a historic moment. He spoke with a strong, clear voice; so, too, was his conscience.
    “Madam, M. Meyer offers you his great respect and affection and wishes to inform you that we have just received a cable from M. Pathé. M. Pathé predicts that the film taken upon your arrival will be a big success in Europe and America. It’s very sympathetic. We beg for permission to film you again. We believe that there is a story in Astapovo that can be told only through the cinematograph.”
    She stared with her eyes so hard and cold that Gribshin wondered if, no, he had been wrong again: she was crazy after all.
    “With all due respect, Madam, you are mistaken in believing that you and your family are the sole victims of the current situation. Something is being perpetrated here that calls into question the Count’s genius and the nature of his family life. The entire world is defrauded by this state of affairs. For the public to understand the truth—the real truth beyond the circumstances of the moment—it will need to have seen that you’ve said farewell to the Count and received his blessing. The Count would wish this himself, if he only had the power to effect it.”
    “Chertkov won’t permit it.”
    Gribshin forced a chuckle. “Mr. Chertkov’s writ runs just so far. He may or may not be the lord of the stationmaster’s house. It is indisputable that M. Pathé is the lord of the cinema. On behalf of M. Pathé, I ask that you prepare yourself to be filmed. Please meet us on the platform near the stationmaster’s door within, say, a half hour. I promise that at that time the truth shall be filmed.”
    “How can I trust you?”
    Gribshin was surprised by the question, which was tossed to him like a rope thrown by a drowning swimmer. He fingered the cord for a few moments. And then he replied:
    “Madam, you can’t trust me. You can trust only in the truth.”

TWELVE
    LATER that week cinema audiences across Europe would witness the following: the Countess approaches the stationmaster’s house and climbs the three steps to the front door, where she is met by a plain young woman, her youngest daughter Sasha. After the Countess is clearly seen to have asked for permission to enter, she steps forward past Sasha into the house. At that moment the film image