Separated a few feet by the table top, Nick scanned the people in front and those, standing on their toes, who peered in from behind. Each person's eyes were constantly shifting from side to side, and up and down. Drinking in all the information they could, the visitors were making precise mental lists of the clothes the singers in the posters were wearing, the type of watch Nick had, his blue jeans, and anything at all about the mysterious tape player, including its two speakers.
Their faces, however, were blank. Some bit their lips, others clenched their jaws, but nothing more. It was a strong Russian characteristic to take note of things visually but to keep verbal public expression to a bare minimum. And this they did. Only the eyes darting from Nick to the tape machine to the posters betrayed their intense curiosity. Nick knew that all he had to do was cast them the faintest signal—an apathetic smile, a weak hello—and, like water from a burst dam, he would be inundated with questions.
Nick turned up the music. Like the counter, it was another barrier. A Western singer blared away to the accompaniment of a steel guitar, and Nick prayed that the imposingly loud music would stifle the chance of being queried. How much, thought Nick, could he give them? He could tell them everything he knew, describe his life in minute detail, give every fact and statistic about America he'd ever heard, and still it would not be enough. More, more, more, they would demand.
Then it happened. The icebreaker. One tape finished, popped up, and the entire carousel rotated until it gobbled up the next tape. Astonished gasps arose from the audience.
“Oi!”
“What was that?”
“My God, Sasha, did you see?”
Someone daringly called out: “Again! Make it do it again!”
“Da, da!” came the approving echo. “Again, again!”
“Oh, shit,” said Nick, smiling to himself. “Why not?”
He pressed the reject button and the tape machine repeated its magic: one tape popped up, the carousel spun to the next, and another tape was pulled down into the play position.
“Amazing!”
“Marvelous.”
“Incredible. Now that… that's technology.”
“Okay,” said Nick, conquered by their innocent charm. “What can I tell you?”
An embarrassed hush fell over the crowd; the spontaneity was gone and it seemed that no one would speak up. But then one man coughed, and it was all the prompting they needed. The questions came rapid-fire, one overlapping the other.
“What groups are popular in America?”
“How much does a record cost in the United States? Are they in shortage?”
“Yes, tell us how hard records are to get.”
“Are stereos terribly expensive? Thousands and thousands of dollars? Are they hard to get too?”
“What concerts have you been to? Can only the rich, important people get tickets, or can anyone get them?”
“Do Americans like Russian rock music as much as we like yours?”
“What's the latest from Ella Fitzgerald?”
“Yes, tell us all about Ella!”
Without a pause, the question went on until a sharp, stern-looking woman quieted the others, and said, “Don't you get tired of answering all these questions?” She had orangish-blond hair and a dab of green iodine on her cheek.
“That's an understatement if I've ever heard one,” said Nick, stretching. “This is our third city and going on 700,000 Soviet citizens have visited the exhibit. What's hardest is answering the same questions over and over again.” Nick thought for a moment. Most of all he like being candid to the point of blunt with the visitors. “There's a great deal written about my country here, but most of it is one-sided. Countering that with any credibility is very frustrating because, it seems, most people automatically class me as an agent of the U.S. government and of the CIA.”
Eyebrows were raised. The Russians were taken by surprise that Nick so freely spoke of the feared American agency, which, for them, carried the same reputation that the KGB did for Americans. No one countered Nick's self-incriminating statement, however, and feeling awkward, Nick turned to the woman.
“So how about an original question?” he asked, trying to get out of the limelight.
The woman, flattered by the attention, wet her lips. “Oh, me?” She shed her harsh expression, cast herself into deep thought, and then said, “You… you stand up and get some fresh air. Let me think. You take a little break and let me think. You're working too hard with all these questions.”
Nick had never been so mothered, either by friends or complete strangers, as he had been in the Soviet Union. He stood up, and from his vantage point looked out over a mass of people so dense that none of the displays themselves were visible. Before him was virtually nothing but a solid assemblage of bobbing heads: some bald, some not; some natural blonds, some terribly dyed rust-colored ones; many kerchief-covered, a few without. Every inch of floor was occupied by people clamoring to get a glimpse of something, anything, that would give them a clue of the outer world.
To the left Nick caught sight of someone jerking his head. It was Boris, obviously afraid to wave or shout, but trying very hard to get his attention. A moment later Nick saw Masha and Baba Genya briefly appear in a gap in the crowd, and they too signaled an eager, yet subdued, greeting. Nick had telephoned them the night before, and they had mentioned their plans to come to the exhibit as well as their wish to take Nick sightseeing. He nodded in return, and they understood the signal and melted back into the crowd. They would meet as soon as Nick was able to get away from the stand.
Nick sat down. The woman was still there, with a finger to her mouth and thinking hard.
“So, do you have a question?” asked Nick.
As if the woman had shed her protective outer shell, she now let show her warm, friendly inner feelings. “Well.” She blushed. “I have many questions, though I do not know how original they are.”
“Ask me anything.”
“All right.” She cocked her head to the side and, with deep curiosity, said, “What's your nationality?”
Though it was by no means original—the most original question had been when someone had asked Nick in front of two hundred people, if he were circumcised—it was his favorite of the standard questions. Forgetting what he should and should not say, he couldn't resist manipulating this simple conversation into a provocative one.
“My nationality is American.” He was fully aware that this was not what the woman had in mind.
“Yes… but what is your real nationality?”
“American.” Nick took a deep breath. Once tapped, this conversation, like a loose thread being pulled and pulled without ever ending, would lead from one topic to the next.
“No, you don't understand me.” She bit her chipped fingernail as she thought how to rephrase the question. “Your nationality… English, German, French?”
“I'm American, but my ancestors were from Europe.” He was ready to make his point.
“Da, da,” she said, eager to break through the language barrier. “What is the nationality written on your documents?”
Bull's-eye.
“Documents?” said Nick, feigning confusion. “We have no documents.”
It was such a foreign concept that it was impossible for her to grasp it. “What?” she was incredulous. “No… no internal passports?”
“None. My government doesn't by law require identification.”
“Nothing?” she was speechless. “But, but—”
“Nothing.”
She burst into a nervous laugh and searched the people to her side for help. “But how do Americans get by?
How do people know who you are?”
“I tell them who I am.” Nick felt a tinge of guilt for playing with her. She was fascinated, though, as was everyone else who could overhear the conversation. “We have no work books either, where we are required to record every place of employment. I am a citizen of the United States and therefore my n
ationality is American. My ethnic background is another matter and only of personal interest—it has never been and, I hope, never will be noted by my government.”
Half-talking to herself, trying to make sense of it all, she explained, “But we have internal passports and we must record our citizenship—Soviet—and our nationality. I am Ukrainian. I thought every country was like that, but…” In all sincerity, she looked up at Nick. “But without an internal passport here we will not be given a residency permit to live in a city, we will not be given an apartment, and we will not be given a job. Are you absolutely sure you have no documents, no passports?”
“Wait,” said Nick, lifting his finger. “I said we have no internal passports,” For full effect, he pronounced his next words with great care. “We do, however, have to have passports when we… travel abroad.”
The crowd was stunned. Finally a young man spoke up.
“Travel?” he asked, suspiciously. “Can Americans travel out of their country? Freely, I mean.”
Nick smiled to himself. Even though this was precisely the type of thing that angered the Soviet authorities—they wanted him to stick more to agriculture and less to such inflammatory issues—he couldn't resist. And for the next half-hour he was bombarded with questions about travel abroad. Who can get a passport to go outside the country? Can only the rich and influential? Whose permission must you get to leave the country? How many hundreds of dollars does an exit visa cost? Must you tour with government-sponsored and approved groups? How many dollars are you allowed to take out of the country? Where are you permitted to go and how long does your government permit you to stay out of the country?
Nick was besieged by an uninterrupted flow of questions about identification and travel until another guide relieved him at the end of his shift.
“Thank God,” said Nick as he stood. He stretched and as he searched the exhibit for Boris and Masha, his eyes met Olga's.
Nick stepped off the guide stand and pushed through the overwhelming crowd. Without the slightest facial expression, their eyes caught once, lingered momentarily, and he knew it was enough. Nick went to the side wall covered with the enlarged photograph of a tomato harvester, confident that she was only a few paces behind. At the wall, he pressed his shaking finger on the picture as if he were pointing something out. It seemed forever before she was standing by his side.
“I apologize for leaving so quickly the other night,” she said, facing the photograph.
People swarmed around them. Someone bumped into Nick and he looked at the man distrustfully.
“Is everything all right, Olga?” He was both relieved and excited that she had come back to the exhibit. “I don't want to make any problems, but I'd…”
Olga reached out, hesitated, and then touched the photograph with the tip of her long finger. She moved it slowly as if she were tracing the outline of the pictured tractor. When she reached the tractor's front wheels, her hand brushed Nick's. He wanted to touch her, to talk freely with her, but he knew he couldn't. Not here at the exhibit, anyway.
“Will you meet with me again?” asked Olga.
“Of course.” He detected something melancholic in her. “When?”
“Tonight. Same place, same time?” She had a sad air about her, and her deep blue eyes stole a glance at him. Resting her hand momentarily on his arm, almost as if she were pleading, she said, “Will you?”
“Sure.” If it hadn't been so stuffy, Nick would have sworn he was blushing.
Olga set off without further word. Almost as if she were ducking underwater, she dove into the crowd and disappeared. Uplifted and hopeful, though of what he wasn't sure, Nick started off in the opposite direction toward the irrigation stand.
Whether they cared to or not, people were barely moving through the exhibit, carried along in a solid mass from the moment they stepped into the hall until they were dumped out the exit. If the masses for some reason panicked now, it was clear to Nick that he would be trampled to death on the spot.
Someone latched onto his shirt and pulled.
“Hello.” The voice was muffled.
It was Boris, Masha at his side, struggling not to be carried away. They both wore the jeans Margie had sent.
“Over there.” Nick motioned toward an overlooked corner that was like the tranquil area behind a rock in a stream.
Huddled in this obscure part of the exhibit, Boris said, “When can we meet again?” His eyes rested only briefly on Nick. Otherwise they constantly scanned the room for fear of someone watching.
“How about tomorrow?”
“Good,” said Masha, eagerly taking him by the wrist. “Come for dinner. We'll go sightseeing first.”
Nick checked about. “I'll look forward to it.” If Boris were worried, maybe he should be, too.
“Tomorrow evening,” said Boris, “at 6:30. Same place.”
“I'll be there.”
“So many people, Nick.” said Masha, gazing at the great magnitude of people. “It must be difficult work. So, so many people. We had to wait four hours in line just to get in.”
Nick looked around. “I thought I saw Baba Genya.”
“She went out,” said Boris. “Not enough air.”
“I've got to get to my next stand. Besides…”
“Yes,” agreed Boris. “It's best not to stand here too long.”
“Until our meeting.” Masha smiled with excitement.
Viktor Yezhov watched from the other side as the guide, Nick Miller, spoke with two young Russians. He couldn't see their faces until they turned, and even then his view was obscured by the other visitors passing by. Pushing aside a babushka, he leaned to the left and got a good look: a tall, thin man with dark hair, and a short pudgy woman with a clean, wide face and pointed nose. Yezhov closed his eyes in concentration. He would remember the two faces, just as he would be sure to remember the woman with the thick blond hair who had spoken with Miller a few minutes earlier.
Quickly, Yezhov worked his way through the crowd to a predetermined spot near the irrigation stand. Near the spinning lawn sprinkler display, he leaned up against the wall, and tried to appear bored. He was quite pleased with himself. His estimation was correct: Miller passed by moments later.
By design, none of the guides knew he spoke fluent English, so in Russian, Yezhov cried, “Nick, so busy!” He laughed and slapped the American on the back in a jovial manner.
Miller was distressed, and his words were sharp. “What do you want?”
“You must be very tired by now,’? said Yezhov sympathetically.
Above the din of thousands of people, a woman's voice cried out in English. “Jesus Christ, Nick, would you get the hell over here?” It was Martha, the guide on the irrigation stand Nick was to replace. “I'm about to collapse.”
In English he shouted back: “I'm trying to, Martha, but this yo-yo just latched on to me.”
Yezhov had gotten everything—though he didn't know the precise meaning of the derogatory word, it was obvious that it wasn't complimentary—yet as if he hadn't understood a word, in Russian he asked, “What's the problem?” He opened his eyes innocently and pulled Nick aside. “You're the only guide I like.
The others have no spunk.” He took off his steel-frame glasses and cleaned them. He leaned toward Nick and intimately said, “Can we meet sometime? I'll show you beautiful, green Kiev.”
“Listen,”—Nick's impatience was showing—“I'm supposed to relieve the guide at the irrigation stand and I'm already late.”
When Miller started to walk away, Yezhov again took him by the arm. “Just tell me when we can meet. I'll get a bottle of vodka and the two of us will have a good heart-to-heart talk.” Yezhov checked around like a conspirator, and in a whisper said,” I want to hear all about America.”
Nick was openly irritated. He broke loose. “We'll see.”
“Good, good,” called out Yezhov as Miller walked away.
Yezhov had to suppress his satisfaction. One of the other co
ntrollers had just reported a Jew who had made an anti-Soviet statement. Yezhov, however, wasn't going to tell Mayakovsky about the young Russian couple or the blond he had seen talking with Miller. He wouldn't report his own possibility of meeting with Miller, either. Not yet, anyway. The compensation wouldn't be big enough.
No. He would wait until he had definite information that could be used more conclusively against Miller. And somehow, just somehow, Yezhov was sure he'd be able to get something substantial. Patience. That's all that was required.
X
The electric trolley bus hummed along as it carried the last stragglers from the American exhibit to the center of Kiev. Some sat thumbing through the colorful brochure they had been given, Agriculture in the United States, with its patchwork cover; the article inside on private land was as foreign to them as the one on fast-food restaurants, complete with glossy photos. Other passengers on the trolley were content to blankly stare out the window into the darkening night. There was much to digest, much to contemplate. Undoubtedly, the American exhibit presented much propaganda—it was, after all, a government exhibit—but it also contained startling information that could not be ignored.
The new and already deteriorating high rises of Kiev's outskirts gave way to the older, denser, and shorter buildings of its center. It was almost seven o'clock when the trolley crossed the end of the Red Army Street, passed the large granite statue of Lenin on Shevchenko, and eased onto the broad, bustling head of Kreshatik Street. Evening shoppers, hoping to find the last of the day's goods, wearily searched the city's main stores. They emerged hollow-faced on the swarming sidewalks, carrying in worn string bags what groceries and merchandise they had been able to find.
The Cross and The Sickle Page 9