The Girl from Krakow (20 page)

Normally Gil would be finished by six or six thirty each evening, but that night he found enough work to keep him busy after the entire daytime staff had left. Minutes before nine o’clock, he went to the cloakroom for his coat, fur-lined hat, and gloves, and was standing at the main entrance when a large black ZIS-101 came to a gradual stop at the curb. A uniformed chauffeur got out. Opening the back door, he said, “Dr. Romero?” Gil saw that there was no one else in the car—a good sign. He nodded to the driver and entered.

Through the checkpoints at the Kremlin wall, up to a large squat building, then a series of identity checks. Romero was a name on a list they had. “Go right ahead; you are expected.” Up a carpeted staircase, Gil followed the driver. Then along a marble-floored hallway that magnified the sound of the driver’s metal toe-tips as they struck the floor. No one was to be seen in the hallway. Finally the man stopped before a double door, a pair of doors that must have been two meters high, that opened up to an anteroom, guarded by no one. He led Gil through still another polished wooden door, at which he stopped, knocked once, nodded to the office’s sole occupant, waited till Gil had entered, and quietly left, closing the door behind him.

The room’s occupant was a very tall man with a long horse face, dark hair parted in the middle but combed back away from a wrinkled forehead. The eyes were so deep-set Gil could not tell their color. Two deep parentheses bracketed his mouth, and his cheeks showed the stubble of someone whose beard grew fast. He wore a double-breasted gray suit too fine to be made anywhere in Moscow, and he was smoking Gitanes—Gil had never forgotten the aroma. “Sit down, Comrade Dr. Romero. Cigarette?” He offered the packet, and Gil took one. The man handed him a heavy desk lighter.

Gil must have looked as alarmed as he felt. “Please, no cause for disquiet, Doctor. You are in no difficulties. I am Comrade Dalglashin, Vladimir Dimitriov Dalglashin, third secretary of the ministry, responsible for
 
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.” He stopped. “Well, that’s not important. I have asked you here on a personal matter. Your name was given to me by my daughter, Slava. She is a close friend of Irena Yaraslova Malov.” Gil was so visibly relieved that a broad smile Dalglashin could not understand broke out across his face. “Irena Yaraslova has told Slava of
 
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a service you performed for her and of the complete discretion with which you were able to accomplish it.”

Gil decided this was a good time to break in. “And your daughter has mentioned it to you, as she finds herself in the same predicament.” He said it as matter-of-factly as possible. Then he changed tone. “I regret that Irena Yaraslova broke confidence with me. I helped her because I believed pregnancy would disrupt her role as an example to others of the New Soviet Woman. I violated Soviet law in order to protect the morale of a husband at the front. I refused to take any payment. And for this Irena Yaraslova betrayed me.” Gil enjoyed the sound of indignation in his voice.

“Calm yourself, Doctor. She has not betrayed you. No one has found out beyond my daughter and me. No one will. But if you allow me, I will explain the circumstances, and perhaps you will see your way to helping another worthy young person who has made a misstep.”

Gil didn’t need to listen. But he waited the anxious father out before agreeing to his proposal.

Young people’s bodies are resilient. They endure procedures older people cannot tolerate well. They come through them quickly, with no long-lasting consequences. Not one of the women that Gil was able to help over the next three years perforated; not one ever became infertile, or at least they all continued to have normal cycles. On two occasions he had to intervene again. He also tried to solve their problems more permanently. Alas, his access to a supply of diaphragms was limited. He couldn’t get his hands on more than a half dozen at a time. By the battle of Kursk in August 1943, they had altogether disappeared.

A few of Gil’s patients were young women private soldiers, taken by officers as campaign wives and dismissed when they became pregnant. Others were middle-aged Bolshevik matrons, raised on the early Soviet acceptance of free love and still militantly committed to it. One was a nurse at the maternity hospital, who would later show her gratitude more than once during quiet nights on the lying-in wards.

Gil had spent years among the bohemians on the Left Bank in Paris. Now he saw the same willingness in young people to take risks, incur dubious reputations, to experience everything in life at least once, and generally to throw caution to the winds of war. He was certain it was the same everywhere. He disapproved of it nowhere.

Once they began parading German POWs through Red Square in the fall of ’44, Gil felt he had to make some changes. Moscow might not remain cordial once the war was over. Prudence demanded something fungible he could carry with him if needed. So he began to accept the payments offered.

Gil was an excellent gynecologist, and he was remarkably discreet. His clientele was invariably so well connected, he concluded there was no significant risk of apprehension. Finally, he was circumspect about how late in a pregnancy he would intervene. Accepting payment did not appreciably reduce his business, but it introduced him to the circulation and variety of gold coins in the Soviet Union. After twenty-five years of Communism, Russia was still awash in Nicholas II twenty-ruble pieces, Louis Napoleon twenty-franc pieces, and twenty-dollar US gold coins, now as illegal in the United States as they were in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Within a few months, Gil had several of each of these. As the hoard grew, the danger did as well. Just being apprehended with such coins was a death-sentence offense. Where to hide them? Finally he decided: in the hospital library, behind the twelve copies of
History of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (Bolsheviks): Short Course
written by the Commission of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (Bolsheviks). This work was rumored to have been authored by the first secretary, Comrade Stalin himself. There was no such thing as having too many copies in a scientific library.

Well before Gil had begun to charge for doing his patriotic duty, his freely offered help had opened many doors, including at least one door he didn’t want to walk through at all.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

C
omrade Dalglashin of the foreign ministry had a wayward daughter. He also had a wife with complaints more frequent in older women. The daughter’s reports of Gil’s bedside manner came to her mother. Soon the entire family—father, daughter, and wife—had made his acquaintance. Once Gil had made Madame Dalglashin more comfortable, with attendant benefits for Comrade Dalglashin, it was inevitable that he would be taken up by their circle of friends and acquaintances. Besides an agreeable manner, an exotic name, and international experience, Dr. Romero played chess, something Dalglashin valued. He was also a deft hand at contract bridge, a game Madame Dalglashin had learned in a Western posting and that they did not wish to share with Dalglashin’s fellow party members.

A few invitations to make up a fourth, sometimes along with Madame Dalglashin’s younger sister, began to give Gil an insight into the
Nomenclatura
that governed the Soviet Union. Dalglashin’s apartment was not much different from upper middle-class life Gil had glimpsed in Paris and Barcelona: large rooms, warm and subdued, with heavy curtains to ensure privacy; carpeting a little too deep to be very old, under dark furniture on which rested more than one bright brass converted samovar lamp. There were family portraits in silver frames littering the top of a baby grand piano and landscape paintings that might have been by Corot, lit from above by gallery lights, labeled discreetly at the bottom of the frame. A set of decanters on the sideboard revealed a taste that had moved beyond vodka to French liquors and American cocktails.

After two rubbers of bridge one evening, Madame Dalglashin excused herself for the evening and retired, followed out of the room by her sister. Dalglashin looked at his watch. It was just before 10:00 p.m. “On call, Doctor?” Gil shook his head. “Well, it’s too early to call it an evening. Come with me. I’ll introduce you to my favorite watering hole in Moscow.”

It was the last of the summer in Moscow and a pleasant walk from Dalglashin’s apartment through the quiet streets. “We’re going to the Metropole Hotel. Best bar in Moscow.”

The Metropole turned out to be Moscow’s idea of a large Art Deco building, suffering, like most prerevolutionary buildings, from recent remodeling. It stood next to the river and only a few minutes from Red Square, which glowed behind the hotel.

The door was opened smartly by a doorman in a livery that made him look every inch the White Russian Cossack. “Good evening, comrade minister.” Holding the door, he bent ever so slightly at the waist. Gil anticipated a heel click, but it was not forthcoming.

Across the lobby the entry to the bar was visible. The space itself was not large. The counter was contained within an alcove held up at its corners with four marble columns. Beyond it the room was furnished in a parody of a London club. Wing chairs with leather backs held down by a tracery of brass tacks, each chair fitted with its own side table, on which a small lamp glowed. A radio was playing the only song that seemed safely Soviet and yet sufficiently romantic, “
Katyusha.”
There were a few thin and leggy younger women in the bar, but it was populated mainly by men in dark suits speaking quietly to one another.

As Dalglashin and Gil entered, a man rose from one of the wingback chairs, spread his arms wide, and smiled broadly, beaming Mediterranean warmth. Dimples on his large cheeks gave the man a disarming air of innocence. His dark hair and tanned skin made him look like the star of some Hollywood cowboy film. His suit was ill-fitting, but he rose from the deep chair like a very strong, very fit man.

“There you are, comrade. I had almost despaired of your coming tonight.” So, this was not a chance visit to the Metropole, nor were the introductions about to be made entirely casual.

“Enrique, here is the young countryman of yours I told you about. Comrade Doctor Guillermo Romero, permit me to introduce Comrade General Enrique Lister.” The buckling of Gil’s legs must have been evident, for Dalglashin put a firm hand under his elbow. Then Lister took his hand in a steel-clad grip.

“
Que bo coneixer-te
.” It was Catalan, and Gil could see he was expected to reply in the same language.

“General Lister,
tinc l’honor de conèixer-la
.” He really was honored to meet the most successful and charismatic military figure on the Republican side of the Spanish Civil War. The name was as well known to him as any he had learned in Spain; neither the prime ministers—Negrin and Largo Caballero, not even La Passionara, the communist woman orator Dolores Ibarurri herself—none had not outshone the fame of Enrique Lister.

Lister indicated chairs on either side of his, and all three sat down. Switching to Russian for the benefit of Dalglashin, Lister asked what they were drinking. Dalglashin said “Georgian Brandy,” and Gil nodded agreement.

“I am so glad at last to meet a fellow countryman, and a patriot too, Dr. Romero. Your reputation as a physician precedes you. But I know nothing of your experiences in our homeland. In that regard, perhaps, you have the advantage of me.”

Gil replied with as much Iberian courtesy as he could muster. “My knowledge of your exploits in the war is unavoidably considerable. No one in Barcelona could have been ignorant of your victories at Madrid and your valor at Brunete, Belchite, and Teruel. In Cataluna the 11th division’s sacrifices on the Ebro were honored every day until the end.” Gil hoped the recitation would stand him in good stead.

Lister nodded. “Not everyone in Barcelona was so happy with my war. When they sent me to Aragon to break up the anarchists and put an end to the POUM, the bleeding hearts bled, and the Trotskyites screamed for my blood.”

Gil had no trouble remembering how he had almost been caught up in this purge when the NKVD started looking for Tadeusz Sommermann. But this was not the occasion to show any recollection of the matter. “I was a doctor in the maternity unit of the
Hospital del Mar
and didn’t have time for politics then.”

“Do you now, Doctor?” Dalglashin’s question might have been menacing. Gil couldn’t tell.

“Impossible. I hardly have time to breathe at Maternity Number 6.”

Lister was happy to change the subject. “
Joven
, how did you manage to get out?” No one had called Gil
joven
for a long time, and Lister couldn’t be many years his senior. Was he using it as a term of endearment? Gil hoped so.

“I left with the sixty thousand or so who ended up at Gers.” This was the largest of the camps set up for refugees by the French Popular Front government. It had been chaotic but humane in its way, quickly built in the rolling fields near a country town in the foothills of the Pyrenees. With the connivance of complaisant gendarmes, escape from Gers was not difficult for those who spoke French and had a place to go. Gil had met several of its escapees. If he had actually been at Gers, there might not have been a record, and he would not have had to stay long even if he had registered. It was a safer lie than the truth. After all, he had fled from the prospect of a roundup in which Lister had played a leading part.

“Ah, yes. Gers.” Lister turned to Dalglashin. “What does the ministry know about affairs in Spain these days, comrade? Now the bloodbath has ended, does Franco still have a grip on things?”

“The Americans are keeping him out of the war by feeding the entire country.”

“Out of the war? There is an entire Spanish Division—the Blue—fighting against us on the Leningrad front. Ferocious too!” There was a little pride in Lister’s voice.

Dalglashin clarified. “I meant that Roosevelt is keeping Spain out of the war against the Americans and the Brits. Franco could take Gibraltar tomorrow with a couple of
Guardia Civil
.” He paused and then continued in an effort to find common ground with Lister. “What we also hear is that Franco is allowing some of the Republican prisoners out, if they are low rank and if they have some Fascist family to vouch for them. Some Republicans have even joined this Blue division in Russia to prove their loyalty or to get family out of the prisons.”

Lister snorted. “He must have shot fifty thousand when he finally got control. I am surprised there was anyone left to send to prison.” Then he brightened. “Any chance the western allies will topple him?”

“None, so long as he stays out of their war. Remember, it’s only a few years since Churchill was praising Franco and attacking the Republic.”

“Things can change, yes? After all, it was only two years ago that Stalin was supporting Hitler.”

Dalglashin quickly but furtively looked in each direction. This was an obvious truth, but dangerous to assert or even allow to pass unchallenged. He spoke a little louder than was necessary. “Enrique, you are being wicked now. We all know Comrade Stalin was playing for time. We were not ready in ’39.”

“And you were ready in ’41?” Lister was completely unabashed.

Dalglashin ostentatiously looked at his wristwatch and rose. “Enrique, I must go. Comrade Molotov has called a staff meeting for eight a.m. Can’t keep the Minister of Foreign Affairs waiting.” Gil took his cue from Dalglashin and stood as well. Lister remained seated, smiling affably, making no effort to delay the third secretary of Molotov’s ministry. But he reached out and clapped a hand on Gil’s wrist. It was the same powerful hand Gil had experienced when they had shaken hands. “
Joven
, Comrade Molotov doesn’t need you tomorrow morning. Stay.” There was that warm smile again, but the grip was exigent.

Gil returned to his seat and waved to Dalglashin, who was already turning to leave. “I’ll find my own way home. Best to your family.”

Lister began speaking Catalan. “Well, all that candid talk got rid of our friend quickly enough,
joven
.” So, it was intentional.

Gil replied in Catalan. “Yes. But aren’t you a bit frightened to talk like this?”

Now Lister began speaking in a much quieter tone, but still in Catalan. “To tell the truth, I am scared to death.” Gil remained silent. “I don’t see how I am going to survive in the USSR. You know the history?” He didn’t stop for an answer. “Well, maybe not.
Pravda
isn’t going to announce it, but Stalin has gotten rid of almost every important foreign communist who has come to Russia since his pact with Hitler. The rumor is he is going to shut down the Comintern and dispose of everyone.”

Gil repeated the word, to indicate his ignorance. “Comintern?”

“Com
 
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intern
 
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 . t
he Communist International. You really are nonpolitical if you don’t know what that is. It’s the organization of all the real communist parties around the world. If you are not Comintern, you’re a Trotskyite. Mark my words, by next year, even if you are Comintern, you’ll turn out to be a Trotskyite. It’s a mania with them, or at least an excuse for Stalin to dispose of anyone he wants to. And what he wants least are loudmouthed foreigners with their own ideas and any experience of what it’s like outside the USSR. He doesn’t like educated people or Jews much either, but I don’t make that list.”

“But why?”
Always best to play the ingenue
, thought Gil.

“But why?” Lister mocked him. Then he whispered, “
Joven
, if you had been awake for the last fifteen years, you would know that’s the way Stalin has stayed in power: being a paranoid megalomaniac. If you kill off everyone who might be a threat, there’s a good chance that you’ve killed off some real threats among them.”

Gil would have no part of this blasphemy. “Comrade General, I won’t listen to this.”

“
Joven
, call me Enrique. I’m not telling you anything new. You were in Spain. You know as much as I do about the famine in the Ukraine, the show trials
 
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.”

How can I stop him telling me this?
“Famine? The Kulaks were hoarding.”

Lister’s laugh was derisive. “And I suppose you think Kirov was killed by a petty thief?” Gil remembered the assassination of the most popular of the Soviet Union’s political leaders in the early ’30s. The murder was investigated by Stalin personally. But Lister was continuing. “The only thing they managed to keep quiet was the way they killed off Marshal Tukhachevsky and the rest of the Red Army general staff in ’37.” Now there was venom in Lister’s tone.

“What?” Gil could barely absorb the information. It was truly explosive. He had known nothing about the trial of the leadership of the armed forces. Was this why Stalin signed the nonaggression pact with Hitler—because he had killed off most of the officers needed to staff his army?

“Of course, you wouldn’t have heard about this. The trials were secret. In 1937 Hitler was still the enemy. Stalin purged forty thousand officers from the army and had about seven thousand shot for being German spies—spies since the First World War, in some cases.”

“Why?”

“No reason. Stalin’s whim
 
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paranoid fear of being overthrown, jealousy of trained military officers. No one knows. But everyone is frightened. It could start all over again, in the politburo, the party. I think it’s already started in the Comintern. The foreign party heads in Moscow are falling over themselves to show their loyalty and save their skins.”