Red Army Spies and the Blackrobes Trilogy

by Patrick Trese

  Anya’s dark eyes never left his when he spoke with her. He told her how lonely and isolated he felt, and she listened. She listened when he told her how he felt about the banquets and the ordinary Russian folks watching the Americans eat and she nodded. She listened when he told her about the cloud of topsoil along the horizon. And she smiled sadly when he talked about being prevented from seeing the real Russia. Or visiting with the real Russian people.

  “Everything seems staged,” he said. “Clean, neat, orderly—even the people. I wish I could just get one chance to see what life on a farm here is really like.”

  “That I can fix,” said Anya.

  “You could do that?”

  “I can take you someplace where you can, is ‘wander’ the right word, yes? Where you can just wander around and see things for yourself. Stay in bed tomorrow morning when everyone else gets up, Harold. Say you’re sick. Too hung over to travel. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Won’t you get into trouble?”

  “Maybe I will and maybe I won’t.” Anya shrugged and smiled. “We can steal an hour or two away from the others. Depends on how convincing your hangover is.”

  That next morning, an hour after the bus carrying the Iowa delegation left the Siberian hotel, Harold Hoffmann squeezed himself into the two-door sedan Anya had commandeered. He felt terrible.

  “You played your part well last night,” Anya said. “Maybe too well for your own good. I’m sorry for your pain, Harold, but I must say your distress this morning was most believable.”

  Harold was about to ask how big a fool he had made of himself, but thought better of it. Making conversation would only make things worse. He didn’t remember throwing up during the night, but brushing his teeth three times hadn’t rid his mouth of the taste of vomit. The hotel’s coffee and the aspirins from his shaving kit hadn’t stopped the throbbing in his head.

  Anya drove on in silence, thank God, her eyes fastened on the narrow strip of pavement that stretched straight out to the horizon. Harold saw no other automobiles on the road, only an occasional truck approaching from the opposite direction. After an hour or so, Anya slowed the car and parked by a stand of white birch trees.

  “We’ve arrived,” said Anya. A dirt road angled off to the right, marked by a large white sign with black lettering that Harold couldn’t decipher.

  Anya sat motionless for a moment with her hands on the steering wheel, staring ahead through the windshield. “I grew up an orphan, Harold. My mother starved to death in Leningrad during the siege. Someone found me and I survived. My brother died fighting the Germans. My father never returned from the war.”

  Harold started to speak, but she raised her right hand to silence him. “You can’t imagine what our war was like, the millions who died. You can’t understand our love of country any more than you can comprehend the vastness of our land itself. We’re not blind to the problems we face. We’re aware of what difficulties we must overcome, what must be changed. We know these things, Harold. We’re not children to be scolded and admonished. You have no need to lecture us.”

  Harold looked out his window. The gray sky and the dark earth seemed infinite. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Anya.”

  She spat out something in Russian, and then turned to face him. “You say we never let you see what you want to see. Well, down that road is a farm. No one there is expecting visitors today. I’ll take you there, right now, if you wish. Walk around by yourself, talk to anyone you want, take your pictures. I’ll wait in the car.”

  “You’re sure that you won’t get into trouble?”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll say the car broke down and I went to the farm for help. Somebody may even believe it.” She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “Well, what’s your decision? Go or don’t go. Look or don’t look. It’s completely up to you.”

  “Okay,” Harold said. It didn’t seem like too big a deal. “Let’s go see what’s down that road.”

  “Okay,” said Anya. “But remember the time, Harold. We can’t stay too long.”

  The state farm, when they reached it, looked like all the others he had passed through, cut from the same official pattern. But this one hadn’t been spruced up, that was for sure. Alone at last, Harold Hoffmann meandered along dirt lanes that ran past wooden barns and sheds. This, he figured, was what was left of the village that was here before the Communists took over the country and collectivized the farms.

  There weren’t many people about at this hour. Most were out in the fields, he supposed. He nodded to the few men and women he passed. They stared at him, and kept staring, but they didn’t respond to his friendly nods. He smiled at the children. They smiled back but kept their distance. He took some snapshots: a horse and wagon creaking by, a few weathered log houses with decorated window frames, a row of weary grey concrete apartment buildings beyond the fields.

  Harold approached a small group of people and held out his camera. “You folks mind if I take your picture?” he said. The people stared at him in silence. “Amerikansky!” he explained. An old man in a military cap waved him off and walked away scowling. A woman in a headscarf with a small boy in short pants smiled and struck a pose. He snapped their picture and walked on.

  Harold saw two trucks and a dismantled tractor parked next to a wooden shed. Shafts of sunlight from cracks in the roof slanted down on the mechanic and the vehicle he was repairing. Harold walked inside.

  “I wonder if you’d let me take your picture,” he said, holding out his camera. “Amerikansky.”

  Without looking up, the man murmured, “So am I.”

  The mechanic’s lips barely moved. Harold had to strain to hear him.

  “Become deeply interested in my work,” said the man. “We’re being watched, without a doubt. Don’t get me in more trouble than I’m in already.”

  The mechanic glanced up at him.

  “That’s good,” the man said. “Keep that poker face.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Harold whispered. “You’re an American!”

  “Yes, but don’t get excited. Stay calm. I need your help desperately. You can walk away right now and I wouldn’t blame you. But I beg you to help me.”

  Harold stuffed down the urge to flee and spoke in a loud voice. “I’m sure sorry you don’t understand English, mister.” Whoever was watching would hear every word. “It sure looks like you could use some help. That’s going to be damn hard to fix.”

  The mechanic looked up, bewildered. He said something in Russian, laughed and shrugged, then looked under the hood of the truck again. “Thank God you’re going to help,” he said through his teeth. “Just remember: we’re two men who don’t understand each other’s language, one man helping another, concentrating on what we’re doing. Do as I tell you and we’ll be safe. I want you to take a letter and hand it to someone back home. Only that one person. He’s the only one who can help me. No time to explain more than that.”

  Harold moved the mechanic aside and peered at the tractor engine. “Let’s get on with it,” he said.

  “God bless you,” murmured the mechanic. “Listen carefully.”

  For the next few minutes, Harold fiddled with the engine and concentrated hard on what the mechanic was telling him. The letter was inside a toolbox. The box was on a workbench by the wall to his right. Go to the bench to get a pair of pliers. Stand with back to door. Open the toolbox, lift out the metal tray that sits above tools. Lift with left hand. Support lid with right hand on bottom of tray. Keeping right elbow steady, bend over and look for pliers. Right hand fingers feel for envelope stuck to bottom of tray. Peel it off; slip it into shirt without moving right elbow. Pick up pliers, replace tray, close lid, return to the truck. “If that’s clear, scratch your nose.” Harold did so. “You can do it if you concentrate and keep breathing,” said the mechanic.

  Harold grabbed the wrench from the man’s hand, thrust it at the tractor engine, unthreaded a nut from a bolt and held i
t up. “See that?” he said. “There’s your damn problem. So now, let’s solve it!”

  The mechanic grinned, nodded his head, took back his wrench and addressed the tractor engine. “First, we get your two middle shirt buttons undone. Watch me. My work has begun to baffle you. You don’t like what I’m doing, so step back slightly. Your belly begins to itch. You’re barely aware of it, but you start scratching with your right hand fingers. What’s this crazy Russian doing? The fingers of your right hand undo those buttons, slow and gentle. But now you’re more upset. You’re so frustrated, you’re going to snatch the wrench and show me how an American gets the job done. Now do it!”

  Harold went through the motions, stepping back, unbuttoning his shirt, grabbing the wrench, banging it on the engine. The mechanic berated him in Russian, and then leaned closer to the engine.

  “We’re ready to get the letter,” he muttered. “Take some deep breaths, very slowly. Let your body relax. You’ve got all the time in the world. Move slowly. Don’t force your movements. You’re not frightened. You’re playing a game. It’s fun. Keep breathing. Stay alert. We now begin.”

  Suddenly, the mechanic howled in pain. Harold gasped and dropped the wrench. The mechanic jumped away from the truck. He shook his left hand up and down. He doubled over, holding his hand, cursing in Russian. Harold couldn’t help laughing. The mechanic glared at him, gasped for air and began laughing, too. He babbled away in Russian, gesturing at the truck, showing Harold his hand, shrugging, grimacing, laughing, cursing.

  “Slow down, old buddy!” Harold grasped the man by the shoulders. “I don’t know what you’re saying, but I know it hurts. Let me take a look.” The mechanic let him inspect his hand. “Don’t look too bad,” said Harold. The mechanic pulled his hand back. He snarled and kicked the dirt floor. He sighed and shook his head. Then he pointed to the toolbox on the workbench by the wall of the shed. He chattered away in Russian, rapidly moving his fists in front of his body. First together, then apart, together and apart, again and again.

  Harold took a moment to decipher the gesture: the mechanic was opening and closing an enormous pair of pliers. “Okay,” Harold said out loud. “I got it.” He opened and closed his own imaginary pliers and pointed to the toolbox. “You want a pair of pliers?”

  “Da, da, da,” said the mechanic. Both men laughed and Harold started walking across the oily dirt floor. Halfway to the workbench, he saw the balance of sunlight and shadow change. He glanced around. Something was blocking the light from the doorway of the shed. It was Anya, dammit!

  “Be with you in a minute,” he called to her and kept moving.

  “Can’t you hurry? It’s getting late. We have to catch up with the others.”

  “I’ll only be a minute! Just giving this guy some help. We’re just about finished.” Anya started to walk toward him and Harold held up his hand. “Don’t come in! The floor’s awful dirty. You’ll ruin your shoes with all the oil and grease around. I won’t be but a minute or two longer, honest.”

  Anya looked down at the dirt floor and stopped. But she stayed in the doorway. Harold got to the table. He took another deep breath and made sure his body blocked Anya’s view. Then he finished doing what the mechanic had told him to do. Had his elbow moved? He couldn’t tell. But the envelope was inside his shirt. He reached inside the toolbox, took out the pliers, turned and held them up. “This what you want?” he called out. “Da, da, da,” said the mechanic and waved him back to the truck.

  Harold handed him the pliers. “I got the letter okay,” Harold whispered, “but that’s my guide at the door.” The mechanic didn’t look up. “Then let’s push on,” he said. “Get your shirt buttoned. I’m going to want an American cigarette. And you’ll want to take my picture. The picture’s important. Make sure you deliver it with the letter.”

  “Harold!” Anya called out. “We really must hurry!”

  “She’s coming in,” said the mechanic. “No time to rehearse. Let’s just do it.”

  “There will be trouble if we don’t get started,” Anya called out. She was getting closer to the truck.

  “Okay, okay,” said Harold over his shoulder. He got his last shirt button secured just as Anya got to him. The mechanic stepped back from the truck, wiped his hands with a rag, bowed to Anya and began talking to her in Russian.

  “He says he thanks you for your help,” said Anya. “He says you know a lot about tractors and he’s sorry you don’t understand Russian. He’d really like an American cigarette, and I say we’ll get out of here a lot faster if you give him the whole damned package.”

  “Ask him if I can take his picture.”

  “Harold! Please, no more delay! We have to go!”

  “Come on, it’ll just take a minute. Something to remember him by. Here, I’m giving him my cigarettes. Tell him I think he’s a nice guy, I liked working with him, and I want to take his picture.”

  Anya scowled at Harold, but translated his words. The mechanic took the pack of cigarettes, bowed and spoke to Harold in Russian. “He says he’s honored to accept your gift,” Anya said, “and he’d be even more honored to have you take his photograph.”

  Harold adjusted his camera. The man struck a pose by his disabled truck, arms folded across his chest, his chin raised high. Harold clicked the shutter.

  “There, you have it,” said Anya. “You have your picture.”

  “Just one more! I think I moved. One more to be safe.”

  This time he remembered to hold his breath and to keep his elbows tight against his body. This time the camera did not shake. “Got it,” he said. He suddenly realized that his head wasn’t aching anymore.

  Anya took his arm and hustled him out of the shed and back to their automobile.

  “So now you know that Russian trucks break down and have to be repaired,” she said as she bumped the car up the dirt road back to the paved highway. “You’ve discovered our dark secret. At long last, you’ve seen something terrible that we didn’t want you to see.” Anya kept her eyes on the road. “At least you got your hands and shirt dirty,” she said. “It will make my story more convincing. We had a breakdown and you were able to fix the car’s motor.”

  “With what? My bare hands?”

  “There’s a tool kit in the boot. That’s what you used. I have no idea of what went wrong or how you fixed it. Can you think of anything else that will make sense?”

  “Not really,” Harold said.

  They were back on pavement now. The envelope kept shifting under Harold’s shirt. It felt enormous. His head began to throb again. What the hell had he got himself into?

  It took another anxious hour to catch up with the delegation at the next hotel. The Iowans and their escorts were getting ready for their evening meal. There were questions and expressions of concern. Harold lied convincingly, he thought. The Americans seemed to believe his story; the Russian guides didn’t react at all.

  When Harold returned from his room after washing up and changing his shirt, he saw Anya standing with two men who wore double-breasted suits. He hadn’t seen them before and it worried him that the men didn’t take their hats off while talking to her. After a few minutes of conversation, they ushered her from the lobby and down a corridor to another room, probably an office.

  Anya looked back at him over her shoulder as she walked through the doorway. At that distance, Harold couldn’t tell if she was frightened or not. But he sure as hell was.

  Would Anya be returning to the tour group? The Russian escorts said nothing about her absence. They behaved as if she had never been there to begin with. Was there anything he could do? He was afraid to ask any questions. If Anya was in trouble, all he could do was make it worse for her. The rush of excitement Harold had felt in the mechanic’s shed was long gone.

  He had the mechanic’s letter in his pocket and the roll of exposed film as well. He could destroy them, of course. But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t think of anything to do but keep quiet and keep going. But ver
y carefully. The Russian escorts had stopped smiling and were having trouble understanding English.

  Next morning at breakfast, one of them announced that the Iowans’ tour had come to an end. Fortunately, he said, the American visitors had been to all the places of any importance. That wasn’t true, Harold knew, but no one from Iowa seemed eager to argue the point. All of them had seen more than enough of the Soviet Union and were happy to go home, none more so than Harold Hoffmann.

  But he remained full of fear and worry for Anya and for himself all the way out of Siberia and back to the airport on the outskirts of Moscow. Arrangements had been made for an Aeroflot plane to carry the Americans out of the Soviet Union back to the West. But first, Harold would have to get the mechanic’s letter and his undeveloped photo through Soviet Customs.

  It had been easy getting behind the Iron Curtain: all welcoming smiles and no red tape. But now the security guards and customs inspectors at the Moscow airport were grim and meticulous. A tall, unsmiling man in a brown military uniform took his own sweet time rummaging through Harold’s luggage. He felt around underneath Harold’s clothes, checked his shaving kit, examined his camera and his yellow plastic cans of exposed 35mm film. Was he from Customs or the KGB? Would Harold himself be searched? He had the can of film with the mechanic’s picture and his letter hidden in the pouch of his Jockey shorts. Harold concentrated on breathing normally, trying not to look guilty.

  The Customs inspector stopped what he was doing. He stared coldly at Harold for at least a full minute. Then, without a word or a nod, he closed Harold’s suitcases and waved him off to the departure gates. It took Harold several paces before he felt confident enough to take a deep breath.

  It was a long, uncomfortable journey from Moscow to the West. Not until he reached the stall of the lavatory of the Air France terminal in Paris did he dare transfer the film canister and the letter from his shorts to his jacket pocket.