Red Army Spies and the Blackrobes Trilogy

by Patrick Trese

  “I tried to pray. But I could not. I was nothing more than a trapped and terrified animal. I had been caught and I knew what was ahead. In Rome, they had warned us. Now it was real: the inevitable questioning, the torture and, finally, the bullet in the back of the head. No, I could not pray. I was too frightened.”

  Father Samozvanyetz sat staring at something above and behind his listeners.

  “The van stopped. The doors opened. I climbed out into the cold night air. My mouth was dry. My limbs numb. Spotlights flashed off cobblestones.

  “I was trembling with fear in the courtyard of a large, dark building. I knew where I was. I knew that without being told. All my training had brought me to this place. Lubianka prison!

  “Two men grabbed me by the armpits. They hustled me to a doorway and shoved me inside. I stumbled into blinding light. I lost my footing and plunged headlong down a flight of stairs.”

  Father Samozvanyetz closed his eyes.

  “Please,” he said. “May we stop now and continue tomorrow?”

  C H A P T E R • 10

  It rained the next day. A light, steady rain fell from leaden skies and formed small pools at the base of the trees. Herb Coogan detested this kind of soggy day. His sweater was no defense against the damp chill that had seeped into the retreat house. The conference room had a faint smell of mildew this morning and the wooden furniture felt clammy to the touch.

  He walked to the kitchen where Brother Krause and Mitchell Sloane were toasting bread and scrambling eggs.

  Coogan felt better after he got some food and hot coffee into his stomach. He went to the front door and looked out through the rain. The two Jesuits were approaching, black umbrellas over their heads, black raincoats over their cassocks. Their reflection, an odd black shape, slid ahead of them as they walked toward him along the glistening pavement.

  Father Samozvanyetz seemed to be in a darker mood this dreary morning. He took his place at the head of the conference table.

  “So, today, we talk about Lubianka,” he said. “I must confess that I was filled with dread during the night, knowing that I would be telling you about Lubianka this morning. That’s how well the people there do their jobs. I don’t suppose I was treated any differently upon arrival than any other prisoner, but it seemed that everything was designed to terrify and degrade me.

  “To the eye, I suppose, Lubianka is not all that frightening. I never saw it from the outside, except for that glimpse from the courtyard. But I doubt that the building looks unusual. It was once a hotel, someone told me, and the hotel guest rooms had been made into cells. I don’t know. It could be true, I suppose.

  “The cell I occupied was bare, but clean. The offices where I was interrogated were furnished in the Old Russian style, somewhat Victorian. They reminded me of the visitors’ parlors in our Jesuit houses: rugs on the floor, upholstered furniture, lamps with tassels on the shades. Perhaps that’s what made the interrogations even more frightening.”

  Father Samozvanyetz drank some coffee and put his mug down on the table. He folded his hands on the table and leaned forward.

  “So, what happened first?” he said. “When I fell down the stairs into the prison, two guards picked me up and dragged me down a corridor to a windowless room. There was no furniture. Nothing but a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling, too high to reach. The guards slammed the steel door shut.”

  He closed his eyes and clenched his fists.

  “Never had I heard anything so final! That terrifying sound of that door clanging shut. I almost emptied my bowels. I stood staring at the door paralyzed by fear. Would that cell door ever open again?

  “God only knows how much later, the guards marched me to a photographer who took my picture, full face and profile. Then another man took my fingerprints. I almost wept as I watched him roll my thumbs and fingers across the paper. In the next room, a woman chopped off my hair and shaved my head bald.

  “In another room, there were several more women in uniform. One told me to strip and give her my clothes. In Russian, I asked her why this was necessary. My clothes and I were to be disinfected, she told me. Prison rules.

  “I looked about for a dressing room of some sort. The women laughed at me. ‘Get on with it,’ one said. ‘Strip down and be quick about it. You’ve got nothing we haven’t seen before.’ They snatched my clothes away and tossed them into something that looked like a small furnace. I had nothing with which to cover myself.

  “I was marched naked to the next room where I was sprayed with some sort of powdered chemical and then pushed into a shower and ordered to soap and rinse. The water was ice cold. There was no towel to dry myself. I was marched, naked and sopping wet, down another corridor and shoved into a bare cell just like the first one.

  “I waited naked for a long time before being taken to a dispensary where a female doctor examined me. The woman was quite professional, but I was humiliated and feeling utterly helpless. It was a relief to regain the privacy of a cell.

  “No one bothered me for a long time. But no one fed me, either. Finally the cell door opened and a female guard handed me what was left of my clothes. She stood in the doorway and watched while I dressed.

  “There wasn’t much to put on. No underwear. No socks. No belt. The laces had been removed from my boots. Just my shirt and trousers, discolored by the heat of the disinfectant oven. But how grateful I was to put on those few clothes!

  “I was supposed to feel gratitude, of course. I didn’t know that. Not then. All I knew was that one moment I would be filled with feelings of gratitude and then be flooded with terror. It took a while to realize that I was being trained like an animal. But at the moment, I was just happy not to be naked.

  “The female guard stepped aside when two men in military uniform entered the cell, the visors of their caps low over their eyes. I shrank back at the sight of their Sam Browne belts, their jackboots, the holsters on their waists. Was I going to be shot? Executed! But why did they have me put on clothes? There must be a rule against executing naked people.

  “The men said nothing. They marched me down the corridor, one in front of me, the other behind. They took me up several flights of stairs, then along a long dark hallway.

  “We stopped. One of the uniformed men rapped on a door, swung it open and waved me inside.

  “I walked slowly across a carpet to a large desk. Seated behind it was another man in uniform. An officer, I saw by his epaulets. His tunic collar was unclasped. He wiped a shock of hair from his broad forehead and stared at me with bright blue eyes.

  “He seemed too young for his office with its Victorian furniture, the grave portraits of Lenin and Stalin on the walls, the lamp with a stained glass shade that lit the surface of his ornately carved desk. The rest of the room was in shadow.

  “He gestured toward the plain wooden chair that stood in front of his desk. ‘Please sit down, Father Samozvanyetz,’ he said in English. ‘I hope we can complete our business without delay. I want to conclude all my cases as soon as possible so that I can be posted to a military unit again. War, I am sure you agree, is coming. There will be more worthwhile things to do on the battlefield than behind this desk. I’m sure you understand.’

  “I said nothing. I was trying to get adjusted to my chair. It was hard and difficult to sit on properly. I suppose it was designed to be uncomfortable. ‘You could be shot right now, you know,’ the young officer said. ‘The charge against you is espionage, after all. Please don’t protest. I know very well that you are not a spy. You are an American. You are a Jesuit priest. You were trained in Rome to come to Russia to save souls. Ad majorem Dei gloriam, as you say in Latin. That’s not espionage, of course. There are other sections of our criminal code that would apply, but I do not want to take the time to bend your case like a pretzel to fit those charges. I would rather prepare to defend Russia against the Nazis than to sit here and document your religious scheme. Do you understand what I am saying?’

  “I did not
and I told him so.

  “‘You may smoke, if you wish,’ he said.

  “I told him that I had no cigarettes. ‘Too bad,’ he said. ‘They are hard to get here, too.’

  “He lit a cigarette with a gold lighter and watched me watching him smoke.

  “I was stunned, of course. It was obvious that he knew all about me. Everything. But how did he know what he knew? I did not dare ask.

  “He rested his cigarette in an ashtray. ‘Let me explain my position,’ he said. ‘And yours. Right now, I am in charge of your case. The Red Army officers who caught you know you are in custody. Some of our counter-intelligence officers also know, but nobody above the rank of colonel. The generals and their superiors will not be aware that I have you here until I file my report.

  “‘When they learn that I have a Jesuit in my possession, and an American to boot, they will order me to find out everything about your mission and your training. They will insist on my extracting every small detail, every little fact, before you are shot. That, unfortunately, is the way they are.

  “‘There is no changing them,’ he sighed. ‘And that means that I will have to spend weeks, months, perhaps even years, getting everything down on paper, just so. I will never get my transfer. The war will be fought without me.

  “‘On the other hand, I could report that the officers who apprehended you made an honest mistake. My investigation determined that you were not one of those Jesuits we are looking for, but just an ordinary Polish spy. You could confess to simple espionage tonight, sign the papers, and be shot without delay. That would be better for both of us, don’t you agree?’

  “I told him that I did not see how it would be better for me. He seemed surprised.

  “‘Why, I am offering you a quick ride to Heaven!’ he said. ‘Look at it this way. Within an hour, we could draw up a simple confession of espionage that would satisfy everybody: a Polish spy tries to get behind our lines and gets caught. You could sign it. We could have some tea and a few more cigarettes and enjoy some pleasant conversation. Later tonight, a bullet would send you straight up to Heaven to live happily ever after with that wonderful God of yours. I don’t understand your hesitation. Isn’t that your ultimate goal? To get to Heaven? Well, this very night, the angels and archangels and God Himself could be welcoming you and praising you! Saint Alex Samozvanyetz, the Holy Martyr! This very night!’

  “Trying to make light of his proposal, I told him I understood his commendable desire for active duty and appreciated his sense of urgency. I, on the other hand, was in no hurry to be shot. I suggested that he just turn my case over to somebody else. He did not return my smile.

  “‘Where there’s life, there’s hope, eh? Is that what you are thinking? How wrong you are.’ He paged through a folder on his desk. ‘Let me assure you, Father Samozvanyetz, that your case is worse than hopeless. Someone else, someone who actually likes this kind of work, could use you to build a career. Your case could be investigated for years. That could be extremely painful. And it would all be the same in the end. A bullet in the brain.

  “‘You are much better off with me. I am offering you a quick way out. But you insist on buying time. Does that indicate a lack of faith on your part, Father Samozvanyetz? Could it be possible that you do not believe what you profess to believe?’

  “I said nothing. How could I respond? I was clinging to life by my fingernails. He lit another cigarette and sat quietly, watching me.

  “‘You were involved in a foolish enterprise, Father Samozvanyetz. Personally, I think you should have an easy way out. Your superiors should have known that there was not the slightest chance of success. A brave man should not suffer because his superiors are stupid. At least, you were a brave man when you started out. Now, I am not so sure.’

  “He sat quietly for several minutes and watched me squirm on that uncomfortable chair.

  “‘You are making a mistake not to accept my offer,’ he said. ‘I am not like the others here. I have no interest in destroying your faith. As far as I am concerned, you are what you are, you believe what you believe. But there are others here who delight in beating prisoners down to a level where they have no faith in anything, let alone God. It can be done, Father Samozvanyetz. It takes time, but they do it. And they enjoy doing it.’

  “He let me sit and think about that for a while.

  “‘So, what do you say, Father Samozvanyetz? One shot and it is all over. Nothing more to worry about. Why not take my offer and leave this world with your faith intact?’

  “I told him he was asking me to commit suicide. ‘You must know that I can’t do that,’ I said.

  He sighed and again brushed the hair from his forehead. ‘I am asking you to be realistic,’ he said.

  “I told him I would rather take my chances with another officer.

  “‘You have too much faith in your faith,’ he said. ‘Or you are not listening to what I am saying. Are you not risking your immortal soul by hanging onto life? Aren’t you risking eternal damnation? You can’t withstand Lubianka. Nobody can. Look at yourself. Already you are the picture of despair, yet nothing serious has happened to you, yet.’

  “He was right, of course. I sat there trembling on that odd, tormenting chair, knowing that everything he had said was all too true. What little strength I had was rooted in pride and arrogance. I could not expect to remain faithful under torture. Not for long. I could see that plainly and I was terrified. Was it better to get it over with quickly, as he said? He was waiting for my decision. But what could I say? What was right? What was wrong? I felt I had to say something.

  “But I never got the chance. The young officer suddenly ran out of patience. ‘This is getting me nowhere!’ he said. He stood up and shouted for the guards standing outside the door: ‘Get this man out of my sight!’ With that, he stomped out of the office.

  “I stood there bewildered. One of the guards grabbed me by the arm, spun me around and pushed me out the door. More stairs, another bleak corridor. The guards took me to another cell. I stayed in that one for a very, very long time.”

  Father Samozvanyetz left his chair and poured himself another mug of coffee. He walked to the window and looked outside.

  “One gets the feeling that the rain will never stop,” he said. “But it always does, doesn’t it?”

  “That young interrogator,” said Herb Coogan. “Do you remember his name, by any chance?”

  “I don’t believe he ever told me his name. I never saw him again.”

  “Did you feel that he was just playing a game with you?”

  “Not at the time,” said Father Samozvanyetz. “I thought he was deadly serious. I think he was sincere about wanting to trade prison duty for the battlefield. That was probably true enough. But, later on, when I became used to the fear, I concluded that he never intended to have me shot that night. I am now sure his job that night was to start my emotional and moral breakdown. He successfully planted a seed of doubt in my mind that made me truly miserable.”

  “Any idea why?”

  Father Samozvanyetz shrugged.

  “Why, indeed?” he said. “I suppose the NKVD had something special in mind for me. But what that might have been, I have no idea. Whatever it was, I suppose it got lost during the war.

  “Perhaps the people in charge of my case were assigned to more pressing duties. Perhaps the bureaucracy lost my files. I just don’t know. But, for some reason, I did not go through the dehumanizing process he warned me about and that I heard about later in the camps. That is to say, I was not tortured, although the possibility of being tortured was never far from my mind.

  “Mostly, I was left alone. Whether by accident or design, I was kept in isolation for a very long time. Perhaps that was intended to be a kind of torture. Who can say?

  “Right at the beginning of my confinement, I lost all track of time. I hibernated. Vegetated. How can I describe it? I must have sunk into some sort of intellectual coma, completely without conscious thought. I w
as barely aware of the guards bringing food. I don’t remember eating. Or bathing. Or using the latrine bucket, if there was one.

  “How do I know that I went through this strange comatose period? Only because I know that I survived it. Eventually, I was able to look back at it like a man who has emerged from a fog bank. But I can’t tell you what was back there in the fog. Or how long I was in it. When it ended, it was like waking from a deep, troubled sleep, groggy and dazed, knowing that there had been terrible nightmares, but having no recollection of the dreams themselves.

  “The first thing I became aware of was a sound that would come and go. I didn’t know what it was. It was just there sometimes. And then, one day, I knew what it was. A bell in the distance. Soft. Faint. I could hear a bell tolling somewhere. A church bell? Perhaps. It sounded like a church bell.

  “I began thinking about church bells. My bell tolled. Then it was silent. Then it tolled again. After a while, I realized that it tolled at regular intervals. That thought excited me. I began to wonder if I could put the bell to use in some way.

  “It dawned on me that the bell might be marking the passing of time. Perhaps it marked each quarter hour. I sat up and listened. Soon, I was able to measure an hour, and then a complete day. Later, I was able to tell exactly how much time was passing.

  “I began to study my surroundings. The door, the walls, the floor. My cell had a wooden floor much like the one in this room except that the wood was of better quality.”

  Father Samozvanyetz walked to the open space between the conference table and the windows of the room. He stepped off six paces.

  “This,” he said, “was the distance from the door to the wall opposite.”

  He walked to the windows, turned and took four paces toward the table. “This,” he said, “is how wide the cell was, from wall to wall. The ceiling was about twelve feet high.”