C H A P T E R • 5
A week of heat and humidity had been oppressing Chicago and Father John Beck could feel the approach of summer’s last great storm. He stood gazing out his office window watching the leaves of the maple trees turn silver in the yellowish green light. The garden behind the mansion, which now served as the Jesuit Provincial’s office and residence, had fallen silent. The birds and squirrels had gone to those secret places where they find refuge in times of danger. Father Beck wondered aloud where they went.
Brother Alphonse Krause, the Provincial’s secretary, said he had no idea.
“You could ask your visitor when he gets here, Father. I think he might be a farmer.”
“Did he say he was a farmer, Brother Al?”
“No, I just assumed he was. He was calling from Iowa.”
“Well, farmer or not, I hope he gets here before the storm hits. Anybody left in the offices?”
“No, I told everybody to leave. They should be safe at home by now. And I’ve made sure all the windows are closed.”
“Good,” said Father Beck. “Nothing to do now but wait.”
∗ ∗ ∗
Well, I’m used to waiting, thought Father Beck. It had been a long five and a half years, waiting for his term as Provincial to end. His successor would be chosen before the year was out and he’d be moving on to become Master of Novices at the Novitiate of the Sacred Heart at Milford, Ohio, near Cincinnati. That’s what he’d been told, and that was fine with him. He hadn’t enjoyed having so much authority over his fellow Jesuits.
But today was today. He was still Provincial and a man was driving all the way from Iowa to tell him something he said was important. Brother Al had taken the long distance telephone call earlier in the week.
“I’m a Methodist,” the man had said, “so I don’t know exactly how to go about this.” He wouldn’t say why he wanted to speak with the Jesuit Provincial face-to-face, but he insisted it was urgent. Brother Al said he thought the man sounded frightened, or very nervous, anyway. So he made the appointment. And now Harold Hoffmann was due to arrive in an hour.
“We ought to change before our Methodist farmer gets here, Brother Al. It’s probably better not to greet our visitor in our cassocks, especially if he’s frightened about something. You’ll look less threatening in a shirt and tie.”
Father Beck walked down the hall past the empty clerical offices, across the mansion’s large foyer, up the wide, curving staircase to the second floor, then along the carpeted corridor that led to his living quarters. Turn the lights off on the way down, he told himself. No sense wasting electricity. He made sure his bedroom windows were closed before hanging his cassock in his closet.
His bathroom was still damp from his morning shower. He washed his hands and face, then pressed the cold washcloth against his eyes and held it there. Harold the herald: what problem does this anxious messenger bring? And why is he so troubled? Most likely, it has to do with something personal. But why come here? Why not find help closer to home in his own church?
Father Beck slipped into a short-sleeved black shirt with a Roman collar. He checked his appearance in the mirror above his dresser. He didn’t look Methodist, but he might pass for Episcopalian. That would have to do.
∗ ∗ ∗
Harold Hoffmann had been watching the clouds building up over the Great Plains ever since making his call to Chicago and he knew that the gathering storm would be powerful and full of damage. His son had urged him to delay his trip until the storm passed, but Harold had shaken off his objections and left that morning at dawn. He kept his big blue Oldsmobile cruising a safe ten miles over the limit and managed to stay ahead of the storm. He lost time locating the address in the unfamiliar northern suburbs of Chicago, so the light was almost gone when he finally turned a corner in Oak Park and parked his car across from an old mansion on a large corner lot. It was set well back from both streets. In the fading light, the building and the old trees on the property looked downright spooky.
Harold put on his steel-rimmed reading glasses and checked the directions he’d jotted down in his notebook. He’d found the right place, thank God. He snapped open the glove compartment, shoved aside the flashlight and road maps, worked the felt lining loose and withdrew a manila envelope he’d taped to the top of the metal frame. He shook off a sudden recollection of the Siberian mechanic’s toolbox. He felt like throwing up. But he tucked the envelope into his jacket pocket and tried to calm down.
A fat raindrop splattered on his windshield. Then another and another. He’d better hurry. Harold clambered out of his Oldsmobile, slammed the car door shut, and galloped across the street. There was an overhead light in the portico covering the mansion’s side entrance and Harold ran toward it. Just as he got there, a powerful gust of wind shoved him sideways against the thick wooden door. Harold Hoffmann and the storm had reached the Provincial’s residence at precisely the same moment.
Lightning slashed away the darkness. Hard rain crashed down. Thunder boomed. The door swung open as Harold lunged through the doorway and cried out, “Jesus Christ Almighty!”
“Amen,” said the doorkeeper. Harold saw the short-sleeved black shirt and the Catholic priest-collar and stammered out an apology.
The man in black laughed and waved him off.
A sudden gust swept a thick curtain of rain up the driveway and Harold helped shoulder the heavy door shut.
“Well, that’s got it,” said the priest. “You didn’t get here a minute too soon, Mr. Hoffmann. I must say I’ve never had a visitor arrive with such fanfare before.”
“Yeah, I thought that lightning had got me for sure,” said Harold. “Are you Father Provincial?”
“I am, but that’s my job title.” He shook Harold’s hand. “My name’s John Beck. Come along to my office where that storm can’t get at us. You can just call me John, by the way.”
Harold looked around the large entry hall. At the far end, a wide staircase wound up through the gloom to the floor above. “Some place you got here,” he said.
“Yes, it’s big and gloomy, isn’t it? But it’s not haunted. A wealthy couple left it to us when they died, but they haven’t come back to visit, thank goodness. Just as well: I’m sure they’d be appalled at how we’ve converted their palace from luxurious to functional. As you can see, it’s a bit of both.”
Harold followed the priest down a dimly lit corridor past several dark offices with nobody in them. “The mansion would’ve made a nice museum or an art gallery, but we turned it into an administrative headquarters. Actually, I’ve spent most of my term trying to unload this place.”
He stopped and peered at Harold. “You wouldn’t be in the market, would you? No, I didn’t think so. Too much to hope for, I guess.”
Was the priest kidding him? Harold wasn’t sure.
“That’s the trouble with accumulating worldly possessions,” said the priest as he continued walking. “They’re too darn hard to get rid of.”
He ushered Harold into a large wood-paneled room and introduced him to Brother Al Krause, a younger man with a firm handshake, about the same size as he was, but leaner. Black shoes, black trousers, white shirt, black tie. Harold thought he looked like a security guard or maybe a real cop.
Turned out he was the Father Provincial’s private secretary. He was a Jesuit, too, but he wasn’t a priest. He was a “lay brother.” The priests did the religious business, Harold learned, like saying the Mass and hearing confessions. The brothers took care of the non-religious stuff.
“Like stoking the furnace and fixing the plumbing,” Al Krause said with a smile. “And also handling mail and phone calls for the Boss.”
For Harold, it was all strange and confusing. But the coffee was strong and the furniture was comfortable, even if it did look out of place in a rich man’s house. John and Al seemed like nice enough guys and they were sure doing their darndest to put him at ease. So he settled back into the leather armchair and relaxed.
/> The floor lamps were lit, not the overheads, so the room was dark around the edges. After a few minutes of small talk about his long drive and the storm, John Beck, sitting on the leather sofa across from him, spoke softly, “How may we help you, Harold?”
“This is real hard for me, John. I don’t know where to start.”
“The beginning is usually a good place,” said the priest. “Take all the time you want. We don’t have anything else to do this evening. We’ll fix something to eat later and you can spend the night here, if you wish. We get a lot of visitors, so we have plenty of guest rooms.” The priest leaned back in the sofa. “You wouldn’t mind if Brother Al takes some notes, would you?”
Harold didn’t mind at all. He took another swallow of coffee and waited until the brother had seated himself at the desk in front of the big picture window.
Thunder was still rumbling outside the old mansion and rain slashed across the glass. Harold got off to a slow start but he managed to tell his whole story, from the beginning of his tour of the Soviet Union to its end here in the Provincial’s office in Oak Park.
“When I finally got home to Iowa,” Harold concluded, “I was still scared. Couldn’t get over the feeling I was being watched all the time. Still can’t. Anyhow, before I went back to the farm, I got my photos developed in a shop in Des Moines. It’s a pretty big city and I figured nobody would pay much attention to the pictures in Des Moines, or to me either. Took me a while to figure out how to get in touch with you, but I didn’t want to call until I went back to pick up the pictures in Des Moines and made sure they came out okay. Then I called from a pay phone there to ask to see you. And here I am.”
Harold took the manila envelope from his jacket pocket. “Everything’s in there,” he said. “The letter’s inside another envelope I picked up at that hotel in Siberia. I stuck it in there because I didn’t want to touch his letter any more than I had to. I was tempted a few times, but I never opened it. It’s your business, not mine. The pictures of the man I met are in the envelope from the photo shop. They’re the only prints I had made and I’m giving you the negatives.”
Leaning forward, Harold handed the manila envelope to Father Beck. “I just hope my part in this is over and done with and I can put all this behind me.”
Father Beck turned the envelope over in his hands, but did not open it.
“You’re a kind, brave man, Harold. You remind me of the Good Samaritan in the parable. You found a stranger in great distress and did everything you could to help him get to safety. I hope we’ll be able to continue your good work. We’ll do everything we can to help him as well. Just leave everything in our hands.”
Brother Krause got to his feet and came around the desk to Harold’s chair.
“Why don’t you and I go out to the kitchen, Harold? We’ll have a beer and rustle up some sandwiches. We’ll have Father Beck join us when they’re ready.”
“That’s a deal, Al. I’m sure glad you aren’t Baptists. I could sure use a beer after all that.”
∗ ∗ ∗
Alone in his office, Father Beck opened the manila envelope and emptied its contents onto his desk. Inside the Siberian hotel envelope he found the smaller one. It was faded, discolored, smudged with dirt and grease. Father Beck thought he could make out a couple of fingerprints. The address was printed in pencil:
Jesuit Provincial
Chicago Province
Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.
“Nice work finding me, Mr. Hoffmann,” Father Beck said to himself. “Not much for a Methodist to go on.”
He opened the flap of the yellow envelope and let the photographs slip out. There were more than a dozen pictures: a couple of group shots of the American farmers and their tour guides and more than a dozen photos of the state farm and the Russian people who lived and worked there. Father Beck isolated the two photos he wanted to study.
One was slightly blurred. The other was in sharp focus. He could see the interior of the barn was exactly as Hoffmann had described: the workbench, the old truck, the shafts of sunlight. The rest was in shadow. But there, posing proudly beside the cab of the truck was Alex Samozvanyetz! No doubt about it!
His hair was grey, his face lined and weather-beaten. But there was no mistaking his smile and those dark eyes.
Father Beck buried his face in his hands and thanked God that his friend was still alive. He had prayed for Alex every day for two decades: first for his health and safety and then, as years of silence wore on, for the repose of his soul. But there stood Alex, chin up and undefeated, as if risen from the grave.
Father Beck wiped his eyes with his handkerchief and blew his nose. Carefully, he slit open the smaller envelope and extracted the folded sheet of paper. In the upper left corner were the initials AMDG—the abbreviated motto of the Society of Jesus ad majorem Dei gloriam for the greater glory of God.
Reverend Father,
Christi. I pray I am not forgotten. My sentence has been served and I am living on parole where the bearer of this letter found me. People here don’t know my true identity. The authorities do. My health is good. I work and pray. I wait for what comes next. God’s will be done. Please pray for your brother in Christ,
Alex Samozvanyetz, S.J.
Father Beck reached for his Breviary and extracted the faded letter he touched every time he read his Daily Office. It was a letter from Rome, the last he had received from Alex more than twenty years ago.
He placed it beside the letter from Russia and compared the handwriting: old and new, young and old, but obviously the same hand. Slowly, he walked to the center of the room and stood with his hands clasped and contemplated the wooden crucifix on the wall.
God is good, he thought. How miraculous that he was the Provincial who received this good news. He had only a few months of authority left, but that might be time enough to bring his friend home from captivity. Or, at least, get the process started. That, he knew, would take more than prayer.
He returned to his desk to jot down his first thoughts about the letter he would send to the Father General in Rome. What struck him immediately was that he was handing his superior a very hot potato. And that it was vital that the Iowa farmer tell no one about his encounter with the American Jesuit in Siberia.
He capped his fountain pen and hurried to the kitchen to join Brother Al and Harold Hoffmann. As it turned out, Hoffmann needed no explanations or any persuasion.
“I made up my mind straight off. I wasn’t going to talk about him to any reporters or friends or even my son and daughter-in-law. I know the man’s in deep trouble and I’m not about to do anything to put his life in danger. His secret’s safe with me, so help me God!”
All Harold Hoffmann wanted was to get back home. But he was more than willing to spend the night in the Provincial’s residence. “Fact is, I don’t want to spend the night alone in some motel tonight. I’m still not over being scared to death.”
Harold Hoffmann left Oak Park right after breakfast and drove home under a clear blue sky, darned glad that his errand was over and done with.
∗ ∗ ∗
Father Beck’s letter to the Father General ran six pages in English. He’d started translating it into Latin while Brother Al was attacking his regular clerical chores in the outer office, clearing his desk for the morning’s typing job.
“I’m just about finished,” said Father Beck when Brother Al announced that he was ready to begin. “Here’s a few pages to get you started. I hope it’s not too difficult. It’s in Latin, you know.”
Brother Krause shrugged. “Latin, English: it’s all Greek to me, Father. I just type it one letter at a time.”
He went to his desk in the outer office, hunched over his typewriter and began tapping out what Father Beck knew would be a clean copy of a long letter written in a language this husky man with quick fingers couldn’t understand.
It was a good letter, Father Beck had to admit as he began proofreading the pages Brother Krause produced. Pr
ecise as to detail, Ciceronian in style, the letter’s graceful periodic sentences presented the facts at hand, considered the political implications for Rome as well as Washington and would close with a suggested course of action that could be taken—with the permission of the Father General, of course.
Father Beck went to the outer office and picked up another page from his secretary’s desk. “You know,” he said, “you really ought to learn Latin yourself, Brother Al. You type it so accurately. I haven’t found a single error so far. That’s quite extraordinary.”
“Better wait, Father. I’m not finished yet,” said Brother Krause. The fingers of his strong hands kept moving.
Father Beck grinned. “Not a bad letter, at all,” he said, testing his secretary’s concentration. “The vocabulary of the ancient Roman Empire utilized in the 20th Century with no need for circumlocution. Too bad our high school freshmen will never see this epistle and realize that Latin, which most Americans presume to be dead, is alive and well and working ad majorem Dei gloriam.”
Brother Krause didn’t even look up. The letter was cabled to Rome half an hour later.
∗ ∗ ∗
Father Beck was reminded, once again, that he didn’t have the patience of a saint or anything close to it. He spent the next day stewing about the distance between Chicago and Rome, between himself and the Father General, not to mention the Holy Father. He tried to tell himself that it was unrealistic to expect a rapid reply. But a cablegram from Rome arrived the morning of the second day. One word in English: “Proceed.”
Father Beck immediately made two phone calls: one to alert the rector of the Jesuit community at St. Ignatius High School that he would need a room for the night; the second to schedule an appointment at the Cleveland office of the FBI. While he was packing a small suitcase for his overnight trip, Brother Krause pulled some strings and secured a reservation for his boss on a flight to Cleveland departing at 2:00 p.m. He backed the house car out of the garage and sped Father Beck to O’Hare Airport, getting him there in plenty of time to catch his plane.
Red Army Spies and the Blackrobes Trilogy Page 4