Denouncer (26 page)

Two long tables had been placed end to end. An implacable military typist, with a flat Asian face, her black hair pulled back tightly and tied in a bun, sat mutely, her hands curled over the keyboard preparing to spell out a man’s fate.

“Parsky, Sasha,” said the chief examiner. Clickety-clack went the American Royal typewriter. “Director of the Michael School.” Clickety-clack. “Parents, enemies of the people. Missing. Presumed dead or in hiding.” The examiner, sporting a bright-red glass eye, paused over the record for a minute or two, a favorite trick of the secret police to instill fear in the person being questioned. He then popped his glass eye out of its socket, wrapped it in a dirty rag that might have once, but no longer, passed for a handkerchief, looked at Sasha with his one eye, and said, “We have no record of a formal denunciation of your parents. Did you not sign such a document?”

“Comrade Filatov said it was unnecessary.”

This remark caused some confusion among the three examiners, who immediately huddled and whispered excitedly. When they emerged from their scrum, the second man, bespectacled and bemedaled, opined that although Major Filatov had cleared Sasha for his current position, the record showed various complaints and denunciations since Sasha had assumed the directorship. What did Comrade Parsky have to say for himself?

Knowing that Filatov’s endorsement made him immune to arrest, Sasha let the charade continue. A person exhibiting a chest full of medals, Sasha reasoned, needed an opportunity to preen, especially since the man had a medal for bravery during the civil war in the Crimea.

Comrade glass eye prodded, “Speak up!”

“Those of us in positions of authority are always fair game, comrade. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Captain Himalayski,” said glass eye.

Suppressing amusement at the presumptuous name, Sasha remarked that he had answered the charges against him to the satisfaction of Major Filatov. He watched Himalayski tap his pencil on a pad and knew what to expect next, the murders.

“According to the file, a tragedy occurred at your parents’ farm. Two murders.”

“I was questioned and found innocent of any wrongdoing. But I, like you, carry that record with me and hope someday to expunge it by finding the felons.”

Himalayski, surprised by the absence of a puling response, sputtered something to the effect that he indeed hoped that the mal-efactors would be found, mumbled to his adjutants, directed the typist to take down what Sasha had just said, and called the next person for questioning. As Sasha left the dilapidated church, he could hear the clickety-clack of the Royal immortalizing his words for storage in some ominous archive.

With a number of gawkers, Sasha stood on the church porch and watched through the open door as others suffered the chistka. In particular, his attention was drawn first to Vera Chernikova and, a few minutes later, to Viktor Harkov. After a few preliminary questions, the chief examiner asked Vera what role she would play in the coming celebrations.

“I have been asked to sing the ‘Marseillaise.’” She coughed self-consciously and added, “I’ve been told I have a good voice.”

“Your passport lists your age as thirty-two.” Himalayski tilted his head birdlike and with one eye studied her skeptically. Sasha knew that Vera was at least ten years older, but if Viktor was courting her, she had every reason to alter her passport. Bogdan had probably done her a good turn. What he had done for Viktor remained to be seen.

“Given all the deaths in my family, I have not had an easy life.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Himalayski, clearly embarrassed. “I just wish I could be present to hear you sing.”

She thanked the chief examiner, took a few steps backward, seemed to bow, and left.

When Viktor Harkov was called, Sasha pressed forward to hear every word. While Sasha wished to see Viktor exposed, his supporters murmured prayers for Ivan Goncharov’s deliverance.

“Passport, please.”

Pause.

“Ivan Goncharov! Are you related to . . .”

“I am. He’s a distant cousin.”

“Really?”

“A poor one. Another side of the family made off with the inheritance. But then you know how kulaks behave.”

“All of them . . . enemies of the people. Wreckers.”

“I trust my papers are in order. And also my passport.”

“Yes, quite. Absolutely. No further questions, unless you’d like (a nervous cough) to exchange a few words about
Oblomov
. It’s a favorite novel of mine.”

“My friends used to call me Stolz, Oblomov’s German friend.”

“For good reason, for good reason. A relative of the great Goncharov. What do they call you now?”

“Comrade Click.”

“And why is that?”

Viktor made several loud clicks, one after the other, sounding like a machine gun. “That’s why.”

Himalayski tried to imitate the clicks, but sounded like a plodding horse. “Not so easy,” he said. “I’ll have to practice.”

“I learned how to do it in Africa.”

“Yes, yes, I see from your passport that you studied . . . where was that . . . he turned a few pages, ah, yes, in the Kalahari among the Bushmen. Very impressive.”

So the trip that Viktor had wanted to make for graduate studies had become a reality with Bogdan’s help. As he made his way back to the school, Sasha wondered how many others had resorted to forgeries to alter their lives? In a country where history determined one’s fate, the Soviets had become expert at changing the past. A new name gave a person a new reality that could include a different history. In effect, a new passport enabled one to be born again.

✷

Two days before the start of the parade, with patches of snow still lurking in shaded areas and the lilacs not yet in bloom, a military cargo truck rolled into Balyk. From under the tarp in the rear emerged several soldiers who immediately swept the square, drilled pole holes in the ground, installed red flags that languidly moved in the breeze, whitewashed the buildings facing the square, and covered the entire front of the church with a two-story-high canvas portrait of Stalin. They then set to work improvising a grandstand with a raised speaker’s platform, the spot from which Major Filatov would address the crowd. The locals gathered to watch, commenting on the fact that although they were often told that wood and nails were in short supply, when the government wanted a structure built, materials miraculously appeared.

The soldiers had brought tents and spent the first night billeted outdoors. But by the second day, the hospitable people of Balyk insisted the soldiers lodge with them. In short order, the uniformed men had made common cause with Goran and Viktor to organize the most splendid May Day celebration conditions allowed. Sasha could hear the hammering and smell the paint. Excitement infected the school, which became a whirligig of movement, as students repeatedly practiced marching from the school to the square and back. The citizens of Balyk had never before paid particular attention to May Day, though appreciative of a holiday that gave them a day off from work. But with the feverish activities around them, they began to fall in with the rhythm and communal spirit of the endeavor. From attics and old trunks surfaced old Tsarist military uniforms and fancy dress clothes, which the locals would proudly display during the festivities: the march, the speech, and the fireworks planned for later that night.

Alya and her good friend Benjie were beside themselves with joy. It was rumored that none other than Major Filatov might ask Benjie to sing, but as we all know, rumor is nothing more than many mouths playing on a pipe. Nonetheless, he prepared a song just in case, “Dark Eyes.” Alya would have liked to accompany him on her recorder, a Christmas gift from Sasha, but she was still struggling with the fingering and stops. Galina tried to downplay the importance of the day, lest her daughter be disappointed, but Alya, like most children, was intoxicated by the colors, the movement, the high spirits, and the anticipation of the students and locals. Here was a special event. There would be music, peasant dancing, finery, a parade, celebratory shouts, salute by gunfire, a speech, and thirty minutes of fireworks. Best of all, Alya had been selected as one of the drummer girls, and Benjie as a flag waver. After the festivities, the two of them would be left to their own wiles, because Galina and Sasha would be attending Filatov’s dinner, and Benjie’s mom, for some unknown reason, was also a guest.

An overnight rain had left the leaves sparkling and the earth redolent of spring. The Michael School students lined up early with their red armbands and scarves, and their white shirts newly washed and starched. Although a chill hung in the air, the students would march without jackets or coats, impervious to the weather in the service of socialism. Viktor and Goran would randomly distribute the placards and banners and signs just minutes before the start of the march, when the school orchestra struck the first notes of “The Internationale,” which Galina had been asked to conduct.

From the sidelines, Sasha watched Viktor and Goran hurry to the shed that held the poles and banners and such. When the first notes of the anthem sounded, they scooped up the results of their weeks of labor and carried them to the assembled body of students, who snapped to attention when handed a pole with an attached sign or poster. Few of the students even knew the people featured on the pictorial placards. The anthem was followed by the thump-thump and rat-a-tat-tat of several drums; then the students began to make their way from the school grounds to the road and then to the village square, where the early arriving Filatov and his two faithful agents, Larissa and Basil, stood on the reviewing stand, with Boris positioned slightly in front of his aides. Sasha and the teachers walked behind; hence they could not understand the reason for the disturbance and agitated finger-pointing on the reviewing stand as the two marching groups—the students and townspeople—merged in the square. It did not bode well for Sasha that the reviewers were pointing not at the Balyk citizens but at the students. As Sasha scurried toward the reviewing stand, he glanced fleetingly at a few of the placards. One said, “Fascism Means War,” another “Peace and Brotherly Unity Among the Workers of All Nations,” another “Victory Over Capitalism,” another “Rescue People from Hunger and Want”; one photograph, titled “Enemies of the People,” exhibited three adoring men flanking Leon Trotsky: Genrikh Yagoda, Karl Radek, and Avram Brodsky. Below each man was his signature. Given Stalin’s hostility toward Trotsky and Yagoda, and Radek’s recent arrest, Brodsky could not have been pictured in worse company. The question that flashed through Sasha’s mind was whether the photograph had been doctored and the signatures forged. If so, he knew whom to accuse.

The dismay of the reviewers was not shared by the hundreds of people, few of whom had any idea about the internal struggles of the Politburo and the jockeying for power. On seeing Sasha, Filatov ordered him to his side.

“Is this some kind of ill-mannered joke?” he barked. “That Trotsky, Yagoda, and Radek should appear in our sacred May Day parade is an offense to all good Bolsheviks. And Brodsky: Why is he being celebrated? For writing a scurrilous play? I certainly hope not.”

“I think your first supposition is correct. It’s a bad joke.”

“Perpetrated by whom?”

“My guess is Bogdan Dolin and two of his friends.”

Filatov fell silent. After scanning the crowd, he replied, “Make sure all three of them are at dinner tonight. Do you understand? It will be their last supper.”

15

T
he table was set for th
irteen places. Sasha offered to seat Filatov at the head, but the major refused, choosing to sit between his two aides across from Brodsky, Galina, and Viktor. Also present were the school secretary (Devora Berberova), Vera Chernikova, Bogdan Dolin, Natalia Korsakova, Ekaterina Rzhevska, Goran Youzhny, and an NKVD agent from Moscow (Polkovnikov). What in the world, thought Sasha, can such an incongruous group have in common? Undoubtedly, Filatov had interrogated groups of people before, but in such a narrow room, a furnished teacher’s lounge on the upper floor? If your aim is subterfuge, he’d heard it said, then act calmly. Filatov certainly fit the bill.

The menu included fish and lamb and wine, with fresh-baked loaves. A special cook had been employed to prepare the dishes. Student monitors served the food. Filatov sat regretting his May Day speech, which he knew missed the mark. He should have ignored it and spoken of Party loyalty and the dangers of dissent. Instead he had talked about the current crisis in Europe and Asia. How many of his listeners even knew of civil wars in those places? Most of Balyk’s citizens couldn’t read. And the speech had been diffuse and pretentious. He wished to call back those stilted, repetitive words.

We call for a common front of the workers of the world to oppose fascist aggression. We deplore the failure of Great Britain, France, and the United States to stop international fascist brigandage in Spain and China and Austria. The English, French, and Americans cynically lie when they say they cannot check such aggression. All they need do is accept the proposal of the Soviet Union for joint action against the warmongers by all states that are interested in the preservation of peace. The Western countries must reinforce action by measures of economic pressure. Let the fascist bandits be deprived of credit; refuse them the raw materials that are necessary for conducting war; close the channels of trade to them.

Cease blockading republican Spain. Open the borders and let the Spanish people buy armaments freely. Such action would be enough to make fascism retreat like a whipped dog. We must arm the republicans. The proletarians of France—renowned descendants of the Paris Communards—must demand immediate removal of the blockade from republican Spain. Workers of England must force their ruling classes to end their policy of supporting fascism and of hostility to the land of socialism. Proletarians of the United States must demand a policy that outlaws the fascist violators of universal peace, a policy worthy of the tradition of Lincoln and Washington. Demand immediate removal of the embargo on the export of arms to Spain.

And so we celebrate this May Day filled with proud consciousness that the magnitude and sublimity of the goals we fight for inspire us, and with the feeling of profoundest solidarity and union with the proletarians of all lands and peoples.

A conflicted Filatov shook his head. What the government called “unity,” he called “lockstep conformity.” Every village in the Soviet Union had been issued the same speech to be read from the reviewing stand. He was merely a mouthpiece for some apparatchik in Moscow who had been told what to write. Couldn’t they have asked a poet to craft the speech? Probably not. Most of the writers—poets, novelists, and playwrights—had been imprisoned or exiled. Pasternak was still free. Why hadn’t he been asked to write the speech; or was he, too, on his way out? What a country, thought Filatov, such a beautiful country. It was all so sad. And considering the business ahead made him sick.

“A toast,” said Filatov, reclining at the table and holding up his wine glass, “to Mother Russia, to socialism, and to Stalin.”

“Hear! Hear!” the diners cried and clinked their glasses.

As if to steel himself for what was coming next, Filatov swallowed his wine in one gulp, and then twice more filled his glass from the decanter, each time draining it with a toss of his head. He unfolded his linen napkin, blotted his lips, paused, and folded it. The others watched. Had Filatov spread it on his lap or chest, the guests would have followed suit. But since he seemed to have more to say, they sat motionless in their chairs anticipating the major’s explanation for why they had been summoned to this Faustian feast. Filatov knew that everyone among them had sold his soul, in fact, many times over, and that there is no witness so dreadful, no accuser so terrible, as conscience.

The decisive time had come, the minatory moment when he’d have to accuse wrongdoers and make arrests. He detested these occasions.

Allow me to say, at the outset, I joined the police not to apprehend people, but to maintain order in these troubled times. Given all the different languages spoken in our vast land, and the many religions, and the myriad views, the Vozhd found it necessary to go back on Lenin’s promise that every nationality would be allowed to observe its own culture. As the Great Leader pointed out, that way lies madness. Similarly, we cannot allow different views of socialism: those of the Social Democrats, of the Mensheviks, of the Constitutionalists, of the Left Opposition, of the Right Opposition. A farrago of political theories is not a country. A mélange is not a government. The Soviet Union rests on a body of incontestable principles, and those who would seek to undermine those principles sow discord and confusion. They are enemies of the people. To keep our glorious revolution from being undone by self-serving factions and oppositionists, we must remain eternally vigilant.

It was to that purpose I joined the police and dedicated myself. As you all know, police forces throughout the world depend on informants to keep anarchy at bay. Better, of course, to prevent a crime than to punish it. That’s where you, my dear guests, enter the picture. All of you labor in the service of one opinion or another. Harmless opinions the government ignores, reckless ones we try to neutralize. How? By acting before our enemies act. To accomplish this task, we must obtain information that enables us to know what our enemies think and where they intend to strike. Some of you here tonight have earned the gratitude and rewards of working with the Soviet state. Woe to you who persist in the error of your ways. If Stalin is right about how to proceed—and I think he is—then why do some resist? Is it because of culture, religion, foreign money, obstinacy to truth? In our experience, those who oppose us are either mad, in which case we put them in mental institutions, or brigands bent on feathering their own nests. It is they who must be rooted out and . . . dealt with by the courts. Do I make myself clear?

The twelve guests sat transfixed; they dared not even move their eyes to gauge what others might be thinking. The student monitors had left the serving door ajar and looked like peeping gargoyles, each one peering over the shoulder of another. No one even turned his head to see the heavy rain spattering the windows. No one even moved a fork or a muscle or an eyelid. Some mouths remained shut, others agape. All breathing seemed to have stopped. Filatov inhaled deeply remembering the excitement he felt when walking in the rain through the forest adjoining his village. He could see the white birch and alder and cedar and pines, and hear the squishy sounds of leaves underfoot. When he ran barefoot through the forest, the leaves felt like moist cushions and stuck to his feet. He loved spring rains, the water rolling off his beaked Lenin’s cap, the earth’s attar, the perfumed pine scents, the drops, which in the splintered light resembled crystal earrings, dripping into the undergrowth of ferns and ivy from the overhead canopy of cedars, whose roots turned the local rivers brown.

“You’re not eating,” said Filatov, breaking the spell. “Eat the bread and lamb. The fish is river trout. Feed your bodies. Drink the wine. It is a good wine, aged, the color of blood.”

One of the student waiters took the decanter and tried to refill Filatov’s glass. “Allow me, Comrade Major.”

Putting his hand over the top of the glass, Filatov said, “I will not drink again of this fruit of the vine until the wreckers and enemies of the people identify themselves. It would be better for you not to have been born than to take refuge in silence.” No one moved and no one spoke. Filatov ominously continued, “The hands of the traitors rest on this very table. I repeat: Woe to you.”

With downcast eyes, the guests began to ask themselves who among them might fit the major’s accusations of violating the covenant, namely, of betraying Soviet rule?

“I tell you,” repeated Filatov, “that betrayers sit among us.”

Larissa touched Filatov’s arm and said, “Surely not I?” Basil did the same.

Then, taking their cue from Larissa, everyone else at the table repeated, “Surely not I.”

Filatov responded to the chorus of voices with a knowing smile. As if staged, he assured his two aides of their innocence. To which of the guests, then, was the major referring? The sound of silverware ceased. The eating came to a halt. Quiet reigned.

“You put me in the unenviable position of having to name names. I would rather not bear this cross, but if I must . . .”

Devora Berberova spoke so faintly, one had to strain to hear. Some heard her say, “I have loyally reported”; others heard, “comported” or “deported” or “resorted.”

Not until Filatov responded was her meaning clear. “You have served your country well. We have appreciated all your reports and learned a great deal from them.”

Sasha immediately began to catalogue mentally all the sources of information that the secretary could have accessed. The files, of course. Rumor, yes. The bulletin board, no doubt. But what else? She hardly left her office and rarely spoke, even to Sasha.

“I shall pass over not only my two aides,” said Filatov, “but also Citizen Berberova and Comrade Polkovnikov from Moscow.”

Sasha said, “That leaves eight of us.”

“I commend your arithmetic,” Filatov replied, sarcastically adding, “Comrade Director Parsky.”

“Surely not I,” repeated Vera Chernikova. “My students have never complained.”

Removing a paper from his vest pocket, Filatov conspicuously unfolded it and turned to her. “Have you not been conspiring to replace the director?” asked Filatov.

Here was a subject to which Devora Berberova might have been privy, thought Sasha. The information had to have come from her, in which case, she would also know Vera’s fellow conspirator, Viktor Harkov (aka Ivan Goncharov). Sasha watched Filatov’s eyes move from Vera to Viktor; but before the major could speak, though he’d rested an arm on the table and raised a forefinger, a habit and harbinger of forthcoming remarks, Viktor said urgently:

“Surely not I!”

“Viktor Harkov, you have much to regret and . . .”

“My name is Goncharov, Ivan Goncharov,” he said, reaching into his shirt pocket and removing his passport. “Here, see for yourself.”

“A forgery,” said Filatov. “I needn’t look.”

“Government issue,” declared Viktor.

“No,” Filatov corrected, “Comrade Dolin issue.”

Viktor sat speechless, looking first at Filatov and then at Bogdan. His mouth opened and closed like a fish pulled from the sea. He obviously wanted to speak, but instead lowered his head to his chest and nervously fingered his shirt buttons.

That Filatov knew about the forged passport could mean only one thing: Goran had told him. Or was it Bogdan? The Three Musketeers indeed! Apparently, when the secret police came calling, the honor among thieves disappeared. But after further thought, Sasha wondered if he hadn’t unduly restricted his list. Every person in Balyk knew about Bogdan the forger, though they didn’t know precisely what he was forging. Galina knew about the passport, and Devora Berberova might have overheard Sasha call Viktor by his given name. Depending on how intimate Viktor had become with Vera, he might have told her. Then, too, Brodsky knew about Bogdan’s printing press, and what Brodsky knew Natalia Korsakova was likely to know. Ekaterina Rzhevska, Alya’s tutor, may have heard gossip from any one of the children. Even Polkovnikov, the Moscow agent, might have exposed Viktor, given that the NKVD had files and photographs for everyone. The more he thought about who might have informed, the more Sasha decided the possibilities were virtually endless, particularly in a police state.

“Your real name is Viktor Harkov,” said Filatov calmly. “So let us not fence with one another. We haven’t all night to drain the cesspool. The truth saves time.”

To Sasha’s amazement, the major dropped Viktor and moved on to someone else, Avram Brodsky. With Brodsky’s complicated history, divided loyalties, and different patrons, he was a cauldron of conspiracy. Almost anything that Filatov touched upon would be true. But he wasn’t prepared for Brodsky’s answer to his question, “Which side are you on?”

“All sides. It’s the only way to keep current and to support myself. Which side do I favor? None of them. They are all equally bureaucratic and nepotistic.”

Filatov shot a glance at Polkovnikov, not knowing how much the Moscow agent knew. For just a second, the major’s calm exterior seemed to crack, but a moment later, he looked as unruffled as ever, asking Brodsky how he could prove his loyalty to the Soviet state.

“Secret intelligence comes in two forms. One is real information; the second is disinformation. I traffic in both, the first for the preservation of our glorious state, and the other for those who would betray us.”

At that instant, Sasha realized the difficulty of unmasking a double or triple agent. Unless Filatov had access to the information that Brodsky had transmitted to the Left Opposition, he had no way to disprove Avram’s loyalty. No wonder Filatov’s next question was directed to Natalia Korsakova, Brodsky’s former or maybe even current lover. The Soviets must have known that she was Brodsky’s courier to the Left Opposition. But did the Soviets know whether the information she took from him was important or not? If they didn’t, she was in the clear; but if they had intercepted any of the transmissions and found them to be traitorous, then the game was up.

Brodsky’s flippancy evaporated. He looked genuinely worried. Could Natalia be trusted? She certainly had reason to turn on Avram. He had impregnated her and then married her off to an imbecile.