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she was doomed.
    And so she felt herself even more pinned to silence, like Fanya Kaplan herself, who’d done nothing, it is said, but stare out the window of her cell, waiting for the bullet in the back. It was all hopeless.
    But as soon as Krupskaya had entered her cell, the woman had pitied her. She would be true to the text whose letters crawled around her so uneasily. The lot is cast into the lap, but the decision is wholly from the Lord. 7
    11
    Most literary critics agree that fiction cannot be reduced to mere falsehood. Well-crafted protagonists come to life, pornography causes orgasms, and the pretense that life is what we want it to be may conceivably bring about the desired condition. Hence religious parables, socialist realism, Nazi propaganda. And if this story likewise crawls with reactionary supernaturalism, that might be because its author longs to see letters scuttling across ceilings, cautiously beginning to reify themselves into angels. For if they could only do that, then why not us?
    A kindred longing for autonomy doubtless animated the prisoner when in her low and leaden voice she whispered: Nadezhda Konstantinovna, have you ever read the Kabbalah?
    I haven’t time for that trash. Say what you like . . .
    It’s written that man is the moving hand, and God is the shadow. Only man can save God. And now you and Lenin are the two gods of Russia. Don’t deny it, Nadezhda Konstantinovna! You yourself are God . 8 And only I can save you. Only I can repair your glory.
    Krupskaya half rose, staring at her in astonishment.—So that’s the kind you are, she said. You’re not even intelligent.
    Not at all. But at least I am real. I tried to kill Lenin because he wanted to be God, but now that he’s achieved his aim he’s become my shadow, so I must worship him. And you, too, with your tremors, your isolation and your silliness, you’re my shadow, too! If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be here . . .
    You should be in an asylum. I’m leaving.
    I seek hidden worlds, the woman said into Krupskaya’s staring, steadfast face. And then, in a very low voice (since Stalin was undoubtedly listening behind the wall), she whispered: Are you true to yourself?
    I beg your pardon! Why should I answer to you, murderess?
    I don’t ask for justifications, Nadezhda Konstantinovna. I ask only for your pity.
    Krupskaya’s heart was pounding. Rubbing her forehead, rapidly gasping, she wondered when a stroke would finish her off.
    Will you pity me? the woman was demanding.
    I—
    Look at me. Look at where I am. Will you pity me?
    Krupskaya wanted to weep, but dared not. Clearing her throat, she haltingly said: I remember when I was in prison and I felt so passionately that armed struggle was necessary. And I—I think that you, too, must feel passionately.
    The woman’s face swelled then with a dull ecstasy, and she knelt before Krupskaya on the flagstones of the cell, flinging back her head, offering her throat, so that in her shape she resembled the letter Beth, which means both wisdom and madness.
    But you’re deranged! You need a doctor. I’ll tell Ilyich . . .
    Don’t trouble yourself, Nadezhda Konstantinovna—
    Then Krupskaya began to tremble, and she said: You’re not Fanya Kaplan, are you?
    If I’m not who I say I am, draw your own conclusions—
    Is she dead?
    Rising, the woman said: In other words, you wish to know whether I am the assassin in herself, or the manifestation of an assassin.
    Who are you?
    I am your revelation.
    Then the woman (who unlike both Krupskaya and Fanya Kaplan sought to delay her own doom) knelt down once more and began to murmur these words: Suryah, Prince of the Presence, I have fasted with my head between my knees; now I adjure You one hundred and twelve times with the Name of God. I adjure You with the name NADEZHDA KONSTANTINOVNA KRUPSKAYA HA-SHEM ELOHEI YISRA’EL.
    Paling more and more in the darkness until her flesh was as a white flame, one hundred and eleven times (each