'Cover for me," my son Jordan whispers.

We are in Hall No. 19 of the Kshesinskaya Mansion in St. Petersburg, Russia, a faded beaux-arts pile built as a private home but seized in 1917 for use as headquarters of the nascent Bolshevik government.

Today it is the Museum of Political History of Russia. Hall No. 19 was once the nerve center of the new regime. It features a desk lined with neat stacks of bundled documents, a wonderful old telephone, a small bookcase and, in the corner, a blood-red banner drooping between two wooden poles. Jordan intends to creep beyond the rope for a closer look.

I slyly return to the adjacent room to distract the drowsy museum attendant. I figure that asking a question in English will keep her tied up for a couple of minutes at least.

But suddenly an alarm's woo-woo shriek breaks the silence. The guard slowly pushes herself to her feet. By the time she reaches Hall No. 19, Jordan is back on the lawful side of the rope, his face bearing the internationally recognized look of feigned innocence. The babushka points to the motion sensor on the wall and scolds him in a Slavic flurry. We retreat peaceably.

So ends our closest Russian encounter with our great-great-great-uncle Yakov Mikhailovich Sverdlov, the man who from this very room commanded the Central Committee of the Russian Social Democratic Party of Bolsheviks - which is to say, ran the party that brought communism to the country and launched the U.S.S.R. Jordan was hoping to sit in Uncle Yakov's chair and get a closer look at what was on his desk.

Jordan and I have traveled 5,000 miles for our long-planned visit to the Motherland. After learning about this Bolshevik Big Dog in our gene pool about a dozen years ago, we've adopted Uncle Yakov as an unlikely Red patriarch, regarding him with a distinctive, and perhaps characteristically Russian, mixture of family pride and remorse. Both of our sons have studied Russian in high school, and I have become proprietor of what is certainly the world's only collection of Sverdlov memorabilia, assembled entirely via eBay.

Vladimir Lenin's right-hand man, director of the Bolshevik Revolution, author of the Soviet constitution, legendary organizer of the peasantry and the party, and the guy who delivered the order for the basement executions of the Romanov family in 1918, Uncle Yakov nonetheless remains fairly obscure in Soviet history. That is because he died of Spanish influenza in 1919, thereby avoiding the fate - not all that different from the Romanovs' - of most Old Bolsheviks who were still around when Joseph Stalin seized power.

But Jordan and I were not in Russia to revise Soviet history, rehabilitate Sverdlov's reputation, or even conduct any serious research. We came to visit the country of our heritage and provide Jordan with an immersive language experience, perhaps helping him decide whether to study Russian in college.

No English-speaking guides or bilingual teachers, no Bolshevik history experts, not even a Russian fixer to help us navigate a country notoriously hard on unassisted American travelers. We'd go it alone, father and son, following the trail of Uncle Yakov around today's Russia: the land of Putin, petroleum, and urban sprawl, of mendacious oligarchs, an emerging free-enterprise proletariat, and an abundance of stunning young women wearing boots with four-inch heels. And, mixed in throughout, powerful echoes of a Soviet past.

Moscow is said to be one of the most expensive cities in the world. Though I can't verify that claim, I can say that after seeing hotels near Red Square going for $350 to $600 per night, I decided to use a Russian travel agency that rents out small apartments.

Our flat was in the Kropotkinsky neighborhood, located, maddeningly, just beyond the edge of Moscow tourist maps. It was therefore nearly free of other tourists or English speakers, creating the perfect environment to stress-test three years of high school Russian.

Jordan was able to ease us through the many small-shop transactions that provided breakfast and snacks: instant oatmeal of indeterminate flavor, small foil tubs of sweet frozen cream, bottles of the national soft drink, kvass. Actually, we bought only one bottle of kvass. It tastes like liquid pumpernickel.

To sustain the theme of our trip, I tried to view things in the context of Uncle Yakov's life. For instance, it appeared to me that our third-floor apartment had been built around the turn of the 20th century, a period when Sverdlov was organizing workers, getting exiled to Siberia, returning to organize workers, again getting exiled to Siberia, etc. The graceful-if-shabby apartment house across the street was probably built during the years when he was communicating secretively with Lenin, who was hiding out in Finland.

But by the time the neighborhood was filled in with cinder-block-and-pressboard public housing units the color of a smoker's lung, Uncle Yakov had already appeared on a 40-kopek stamp.

To get anywhere we had to negotiate the Garden Ring, a circular highway that marks the former location of the fortified walls of the city. The stretch we encountered was 16 lanes (!) wide, buzzing 24/7 with small foreign vehicles and boxy trucks governed by strictly Darwinian road rules.

To get to Red Square we took Moscow's famously efficient Metro system. Much is made of how the Stalin-era stations are cavernous galleries of Soviet public art. Our neighborhood station was fairly plain, though as we rushed to transfer lines one day I noticed that the brackets that attached the stair railings to the wall were brass sculptures of hands. They were beautiful, rubbed golden by decades of passengers' touch. I'd have stopped to take a picture, but I have to say this: Moscow commuters are relentless.

Our next close encounter with Uncle Y came at the Metropol, a historic hotel just outside the Kremlin walls. Like the Kshesinskaya Mansion in St. Petersburg, the Metropol was an architectural extravagance of the late czarist era that was quickly appropriated by the Bolsheviks when they took over. Once again, Uncle Yakov moved in - "virtually living in the hotel," as some accounts say. From its rooms he directed the All-Russian Central Executive Committee, the principal organ of the emerging state.

Say what you will about his commitment to the proletariat, but our uncle clearly appreciated fine real estate.

After Uncle Yakov's death, the plaza outside the hotel was renamed Sverdlov Square and featured a heroic statue of him wearing a snappy Nehru-like coat and carrying a briefcase. Sverdlov is said to have been a fashion plate, with stylish eyeglasses, an aggressive bouffant hairdo, and a penchant for black leather that was adopted as the style of party leaders.