The Invention of Exile (4 page)

A. Two or three.

Q.
What did they talk about?

A. About the origin of man.

Q.
They talked about the government?

A. I cannot tell.

Q.
They never talked about revolution?

A. I cannot know the subject.

Q.
Are you an advocate for revolution?

A. I do not know.

Q.
You have no respect for the laws of man?

A. I am a man. I have respect for them.

Q.
Why would you live with a woman one and a half years without marrying her if you have respect for the laws of man?

A. We gave an oath together.

Q.
Are you an advocate of free love?

A. Yes. We gave an oath.

Q.
You say you are an advocate of free love, that is not respect for the laws of man?

A. I say, if we gave an oath—we will live together; get married.

Q.
You know about the laws in regards to marriage?

A. Which ones? I would marry her by these laws at any time she demanded.

Q.
Are you an anarchist?

A. No.

Q.
Are you opposed to the government of the United States?

A. No.

Q.
Are your organizations opposed to any organized form of government?

A. I am not opposed to government.

Q.
You don't believe in laws, do you?

A. It depends on what kind of laws.

Q.
The laws of the United States.

A. I've lived here six or seven years.

Q.
You didn't pay much attention to the laws though?

A. If I didn't pay attention to the laws it would be a different thing.

Q.
What attention did you pay to the laws when you lived with a woman for one and one half years without being married to her?

A. We gave an oath.

Q.
What have you to show for it?

A. I passed to her my property.

Q.
Is this “oath” written anywhere?

A. No.

Q.
Does this woman have anything to show that she has a claim on you?

A. If she won't marry me, then I will see her corpse.

Q.
What is her name?

A. Julia.

Q.
And you are here saying that she is your wife?

A. Yes.

Q.
Have you anything against this country?

A. No.

DAY 3: JANUARY 21, 1920

Q.
You understand, Mr. Voronkov, this is a continuation of your hearing commenced on January 19th, 1920?

A. Yes. I do.

Q.
Do you affirm at this time to continue to tell the truth?

A. Yes I do.

Q.
Are you an anarchist?

A. No.

Q.
Are you a Communist?

A. I am not an anarchist, neither am I a Communist.

Q.
I show you a letter addressed to 116 Locust Street, Bridgeport, Conn., dated January 17, 1920. Did you write this letter?

A. Yes.

Q.
I will mark this letter together with translation of it Exhibit (1) and introduce it as evidence in your case. I show you another letter addressed to the same party, did you write this letter?

A. Yes, I did.

Q.
I will mark this letter together with a translation of it Exhibit (2) and introduce it as evidence in your case. There is a sentence in this letter that you have written to this young woman reading as follows:

“But there is possibility to come together although through difficult obstacles, so that we should care a fig for that dirty and stinking ceremony of marriage.”

A. I wrote it. I was not feeling well. I was cross when I wrote it.

Q.
Then you were feeling cross because this young woman, when she found out that you'd be deported, refused to go back to Russia with you without being married?

A. I offered to marry her any way I could if I could get out of jail somehow.

Q.
It goes on to say in this letter:

“But there is nothing in the world stronger than love of heart and soul for only in it there is life and happiness, and not in that dirty marriage.”

A. Yes I wrote that. What about it?

Q.
It goes on to say: “If you, yes, love me, as much as I love you, then you would spit upon all these disgustful calumnies.” Did you write that?

A. Yes. I wrote that, alas. I wrote to my lover. I did not feel very well. I know that our love was broken and in that condition I wrote it. I always offered her marriage, any kind of marriage she wants. You will find it in the letters that I offered her that. But she is my wife, you ask her. We gave an oath. She is my
zhena
.

Q.
Are you a member of the Union of Russian Workers of Bridgeport?

A. I was formerly a member.

Q.
When were you a member?

A. Four or five months ago?

Q.
When did you join?

A. July 15th, 1919.

Q.
Are you still a member of the organization?

A. No. I did not care for them. I quit.

Q.
When did you leave the organization?

A. I stayed two months and then I left it.

Q.
On what points did you disagree with them?

A. Because they hold on the same level workers and engineers, that is, skilled workers—this is why I gave it up.

Q.
The Union of Russian Workers is an anarchist organization, isn't it?

A. I cannot tell you. I could not understand them.

Q.
A man of your intelligence certainly knew enough to read the basic principles of an organization before he joined it.

A. I joined it because there were many Russians.

Q.
Don't you know or didn't you read the principles of what the organization stands for?

A. No.

Q.
You know that if you are found guilty of the charge or part of the charges against you that you will be deported back to Russia?

A. Yes. I do.

Q.
You said that you were a member of the Union of Russian Workers?

A. Yes.

Q.
You stated also that you resigned as a member of the Union of Russian Workers?

A. Yes. I did.

Q.
Can you tell me why?

A. Yes, according to my convictions as I looked at it, I did not believe in their ideas.

Q.
Do you agree with government as it exists?

A. No.

Q.
What is your opinion of the system of government you would like to see in existence?

A. By name of science to obtain society.

Q.
Without government?

A. Yes. Without government. People would be masters of themselves.

Q.
Without State?

A. Yes. I believe it should be.

Q.
Supposing I would tell you that these views of yours are anarchist, would you then call yourself an anarchist?

A. No. I do not consent to have any name, but if you want to call me that—

Q.
In other words you are frank in stating your opinion about society, but you do not know exactly the name for it?

A. I cannot tell what the name would be, but the form, if changed, would mean the liberation of the workers themselves by means of science and they will improve themselves and be masters of themselves.

Q.
Your views of society are that there ought to be no government, a stateless form of society?

A. Yes. According to my opinion, yes. There must be no government or master who will say what must be done. Only science.

Q.
These views of yours could be called anarchistic.

A. Well, my opinions are such. Let them call me an anarchist.

Q.
How would this condition of affairs without government, without state be brought about?

A. By means of science you can give your affairs to the people to govern themselves.

Q.
Do you believe in the use of force or violence to bring this about if necessary?

A. No. I don't believe in force. Science is stronger than force.

Q.
Do you believe that the present form of government in the United States should be overthrown?

A. Yes, very plainly, when the people will understand it can be done.

Q.
How will it be done?

A. By means of science when the people will understand that they need no commander.

Q.
And no laws?

A. I do not know how you can call them laws. They are just simply agreements.

Q.
You know we have people in the world whom we call anarchists.

A. Yes, but I don't know what their ideas are.

Q.
They have views similar to these you have expressed here this afternoon.

A. I said I did not know their program, my opinions are just such.

Q.
Would you think it fair from your expressions or views here this afternoon for us to call you an anarchist?

A. If you compare what I said with what you think anarchists are, then, okay, I consent to that.

Q.
I will ask you again. Are you an anarchist?

A. It is so. I am an anarchist.

Q.
Have you anything further you wish to state at this time as to why you should not be deported in conformity with the law?

A. I have nothing to say. Let them deport me. But let me take my wife.

 • • • 

T
HEY
WERE
MARRI
ED
—
officially—at Ellis
Island. Two-sentence vows. Austin and Julia held hands solemnly speaking. The justice of the peace read in a monotone voice, all the while smoking a cigar that created a cloud of milk white around them. They would be leaving in one hour. He was taking her from everything she'd known and loved. She'd renounced her family, her country, she'd given up her U.S. citizenship. It did not matter. Then, they were not willing to be separated.

 • • • 

T
HE
NEWSPAPERS
WERE
CALLING
it the Soviet Ark.
The New York Times
, January 1920, ran photos. A massive ship, anchored at Ellis Island on a bitter day. They stood on the pier amid the wind and ice. The sky opaque, flurries like chipped ice. The only sounds the murmur of men's conversations, seagulls crying, the moan of the boat on the day's hard air. The anchor cranking like a scream; the massive chain lifted out of the ocean, iron red with rust, calcified with sea salt, seaweed. Just moments before, he'd sat on the long benches of the waiting room, the very room he'd sat in only years prior eager to get beyond the bottled-glass windows whose light he knew was day in America—a country behind glass, the new country's light. Years later he would learn that there were to have been, in total, three other major raids—the Palmer Raids, ordered by Attorney General Palmer after a lone anarchist planted a bomb at the foot of his front door. The raids would be a series of roundups of supposed anarchists or Communists, men and women deemed a threat to the American way of life, men and women who may strike again—more homemade bombs, subversive articles in newspapers, party meetings. They were plotting to take over the country. Somewhere, a man named Hoover had his name on an index card: Voronkov. Affirmed anarchist. Bail set at $10,000. Deported.

 • • • 

1948

H
E
HAS
NO
REAL
reason to believe that this year will be any different. But there is always a “perhaps”—a habit, like a little leap of hope. It is the second day of January. 1948. The city is nearly silent at this hour—7
A
.
M
. He steps from sidewalk to street, tracing the outline of a small roundabout. He likes the sound of his lone footsteps at this hour, the clack and shuffle of them. The press of his leather satchel beneath his arm. Its thick hide scent mingles with his aftershave—a clean, white smell. He is wearing his best—and only—suit of charcoal gray linen, slightly frayed. But it will do, it will do he thinks. His shoes are polished too, though the several coats of polish he'd applied that morning do not conceal the scuffs or the thin, worn leather.

The homes here sit behind wrought iron railings, gates and doors with black ornamental pickets like pinstripes. The sun paints lines of light along cornices. In the distance, he can hear merchants wheeling their goods to
puestos
, the open-air market stalls. They are seeking out their preferred corners, setting up makeshift stands, gathering now to smoke, talk, wait.

He pulls a wrinkled envelope from his satchel. He stops to check the contents of the envelope. It is the third time he has done so this morning. Everything is in order: Birth certificate. Nansen passport, though expired. Notarized letters from officials. Affidavits too. A postcard sits at the bottom of the envelope.
Tipo de mexicanos indígenas.
Type of indigenous Mexicans. “To my Sonnie,” he'd written. “Postcard for imagining Mexico.” He'd signed it “Love, from Father.” It is a colored postcard, but like the Technicolor films, it has been shot in black and white, retouched with the hues and shades of Mexico—the scarlet serapes of the Indians, their wide-lipped, camel-colored sombreros, the brown of burros crossing a small brook, the milk-blue water in the foreground of the otherwise craggy terrain. The terrain consists of boulders, a dirt road veering upward through coffee trees, trees of willow and ash, and lush green ferns bowed beneath the weight of orange orchids. The boy will like it, he thinks. He'll drop the postcard after. It could be the last he'll need to send.

The empty streets, the ease of the city in the early morning meets his hopeful frame of mind—perhaps it could be different; this year could be different, he's thinking. A sudden, swift crack of a window breaks his thoughts. He sees the flash of it opening, the pane of glass reflecting the sky in first a shimmer of white cloud, then blue. The street settles into calm again and he steps back onto the sidewalk, turning down Avenida Sonora, where he can take a camion to Paseo de la Reforma.

 • • • 

T
H
E
LIMESTONE
SIDEWALK
WINKS
with flecks of mica. He takes the stairs two at a time. He walks to the entrance beneath the wide, shaded portico. The glass doors before him are rimmed in silver chrome. Inside, his footsteps echo down corridors. There is a resigned, empty air to these hallways—spacious and wide, still enough to inhale the scent of dust, feel the coolness of marble. Both senses spur in him the old, familiar tightness—first in his stomach, then traveling up to his chest. He is early, but the lines already come halfway down the corridor. He can hear the requests for birth certificates, applications. Next, demands for identification. An address. A sponsor name. From above comes the boom of weighted doors slamming closed.

He reaches the head of the line. A man in a blue uniform gives him a number. It grows clammy in his hand. Up ahead the waiting room is full and appears to breathe from the collective inhalations and exhalations of uncertain men and women. Glances. Judgments. He walks down the center aisle; in the periphery the benches sit like book spines. Over the years, he's come to know the room well—its scalloped moldings, marble floors of gray and black swirls, the rows of floor-to-ceiling windows like tall glasses of water. He knows too the way the room is awash in worry: in the faces of men who sit staring into a middle distance; in the women's hands as they attend to their handmade laces; in others reading, eyes rising over the edge of a newspaper.

He settles into a place on a bench at the back of the room, taps his feet and looks at the worn tips. He hopes that they will not notice his shoes, that no one will look too closely and think him useless. That morning he tried his best to polish away the scuffs and had even taken a brown pencil to color in a bit of the tips. To his surprise, it worked quite well and he wondered why he had not thought of such a trick before. It may have worked in his favor, because well, from afar, do they now not look like a brand-new pair of shoes, shined and polished? He takes in the room. There is something about the entire building that threatens an impending scolding, as if, at any moment, he will be called out, “You there, come with me.”

One hour creeps into two. The rustle of turning newspapers, footsteps coming close and fading away, whispered exchanges. His eyes grow heavy, closing for, he tells himself, just a moment.

 • • • 

“
F
IFTY-TWO
.
A
USTIN
V
ORONKOV.
”

He feels his shoes slide out from under him. There is a bolt of cold to his throat. He is not quite sure if he is standing. He feels a little surge of blood from his lip where he's bit down. He is before the glass partition, staring at the clerk. He has not encountered this one before. The clerk has a long, thin nose. Fine light hair. Not even a strand of gray. Too young for this kind of work, Austin thinks, but then realizes, hopes, that it may work in his favor. The boy might be eager to help, be accommodating. How simple it could be. One small decree. A single stamp and a life could change, a train could pull out of the station and a border could be broken.

“Documents,” the clerk says.

“Good afternoon,” says Austin.

“Documents.”

“Everything is in order,” Austin says, patting his hand on the envelope. He passes the documents beneath the glass. His heart is racing. He wonders if the actualization of what is longed for can ever match what it is to be just within reach.

“Quite a lot of papers here.”

“The letters there are written on my behalf. And these here are my inventions. You'll see that I have communicated with the U.S. Patent Commissioner. That is my oath of a single inventor.”

“Not necessary. Country of origin, please,” the clerk says, arranging the documents into two separate piles. The muffled patter of a typewriter fills the silence.

“Country of origin, please.”

“Russia,” says Austin, pressing his shoulders back, feeling his neck crack.

“The Soviet Union?”

“Russia.”

“You are a citizen of what country?”

“You see—”

“You are a citizen of what country, Mr. Voronkov?”

“My wife . . . she is American.”

“What is
your
country of citizenship?”

“No country . . . But my wife . . . she is American.”

The clerk places the documents back into the envelope.

“My children are Americans—” The clerk rises, tells Austin to wait, and then walks past the long line of clerks seated at the same standard-regulation, blue-gray desks, reaching the end of the room and passing through a windowless metal door the color of slate.

“Shit.” Austin stamps his foot, sighs. He keeps his eyes on his hands. He's come this far, might as well see it through: Keep calm, he thinks.

The clerk returns, carrying a manila file folder. He is half smiling, half frowning. It is a small effort at offering a kind of sympathy. Smug, Austin thinks. But what did this youngster know? This young chap who gets to come and sit here at such an organized desk, saying “yes” or “no.” Clear-cut. Simple.

“So?” Austin says. The clerk sits down. He begins to write on a white slip of paper covered with blue lettering.

“Is it okay?”

Silence.

“I'm afraid we aren't permitted to authorize any visa for you,” the clerk says, tapping the file with the tip of his pen. “D.C. handles your kinds of cases—”

“You see. I can explain about the file,” Austin says. His tongue is dry. A pulsing in his neck persistent.

“Yes, you can, sir. But it doesn't help. We're not permitted to handle your case. It's D.C.”

“I come here every year and I bring you people the same papers that you require. And then I'm told the same thing. D.C. It's up to D.C. Waiting on D.C. and then I'm told to return.”

“We can't reverse a deportation charge. That's up to”—the clerk pauses—“Washington. I can give you the D.C. office to write to.”

“I've written to that office. I hear nothing.”

“It's the Labor Department,” says the clerk, exchanging his pen for a stamp.

“I wrote to them. My wife has written to them. Please.”

Silence. The sound of another typewriter. The clerk bows his head. He sets down the stamp, brushes a bit of hair out of his eyes. Austin sees the ink stains on the edge of his palm, his fingertips. He is not so neat and tidy, is he. Their eyes meet. Hazel—it is the first prolonged eye contact the two have made throughout the exchange.

“Mr. Voronkov, you are an anarchist. You were deported from the U.S. in 1920. This office cannot help you. It's D.C. I'm just not sure what to tell you. Deported? An anarchist charge? Don't you see?”

“I'm not an anarchist.”

“That's not what the file here says.”

“My children are Americans. Surely that must mean something?”

“No. I'm sorry. Listen,” he begins again in a whisper, “it says that you are an anarchist. You are, by some definitions, un-American. Unfit for entrance. You'll have to wait for Washington to overturn such a charge.”

“But please, between you and me, there must be someone here who can help me. Contact Washington? At least inquire—”

“We're not permitted.”

Silence. He can hear a typewriter striking up from behind a row of filing cabinets that stand like sentries.

“Not permitted,” Austin repeats.

“No. Look. Do you see what it says here?” the clerk opens the file, turning it upright for Austin to read. The clerk's cuff links, ring, and watch face catch the light. “See this? Clause ‘d'—”

(d) That said AUSTIN VORONKOV is an ANARCHIST and believes in the overthrow by force of violence of the Government of the United States and that he disbelieves in and is opposed to all organized government.

“I can explain,” Austin pleads.

“Still, our office is not perm—”

“All right, all right,” Austin says. He is leaning close to the glass, can feel his cheek graze its cold, smooth surface. The row of ceiling lights shine in a line of white along the pane. How he'd like to shatter the glass, the typing like steady pinpricks. His breath fast and quick. He sputters his lips, bows his head, and steps away from the partition, arms slack and at his sides, though he feels a throbbing along his jaw and neck. He shakes his head.
Not permitted, not permitted.
He takes his first slow steps away from the partition. He is letting it settle in with each stride,
not permitted, not permitted
. And what is this now, but panic, the heart flutter and chest constricting, the sudden blush as if he'd come down with an instant fever. His envelope, his postcard! He looks around. Why do all these people stare so? The clerk is tapping on the glass partition. He waves Austin's envelope in irritation. Two long strides and Austin is back before the clerk.

“Not permitted,” Austin says, grabbing his envelope of documents. “Well, here is what I'm permitted to say to you: I see that you are married,” he continues, motioning to the small gold band on the clerk's ring finger. The clerk retracts his hand.

“You see—when you have children of your own,” Austin says, “remember me and how you were ‘not permitted' to help me. Remember me. Does your stamp there show that I am a husband, a father? No! So, I don't want it! You have it! Why should I want a stamp from a country that threw me out? You say, ‘yes,' and stamp, and ‘no,' and stamp. You are a cog! Do you realize this? A cog. You are a speck on the surface of my life! So you can have your stamps and your papers and your ink-stained, filthy fingers and when you go home at night, kiss your wife, eat dinner, put your children to bed, think for a moment if you were denied all of it, all of it—the smell of your wife, the sticky hands of your children, the earth and air smell of their hair from play outside. Think then for a moment and remember me. It is you, and all the men like you, who have caused boys to have no father, a girl to have no father. I did not make this choice! So, please.”