“I am a charter member of the backup Trotskyist Paris-based anti-Bolshevik Center. I was following specific orders issued to me by Trotsky’s son, Sedov, during a meeting in Copenhagen, Denmark, where I had gone, with Party permission, to attend the funeral of my mother’s father, the Knud after whom I am named.”
Comrade Vishinsky glanced again at the charge sheet. “This meeting took place on the fourteenth of February 1934, at three-thirty in the afternoon, at the Hotel Bristol. Is that correct?”
“No.”
People in the courtroom gasped. Comrade Vishinsky’s mouth fell open. The three judges on the raised platform conferred in undertones. Comrade procurator general checked the charge sheet. “You have admitted, under interrogation, that you met Trotsky’s son, Sedov, in the Bristol Hotel. Are you retracting your confession, accused Ignatiev?”
“Your Honors, I described my meeting with Sedov in a Copenhagen hotel. I never mentioned the Bristol. That must have been added by the stenographer or the interrogator. I couldn’t have met Sedov in the Bristol on the fourteenth of February 1934 because the hotel, which I knew well, was demolished in 1917.”
Comrade Vishinsky turned toward Their Honors on the raised platform. “Needless to say, it doesn’t matter in which hotel the meeting was held. The important point, which has been established beyond a shadow of a doubt, is that the accused Ignatiev received his wrecking orders directly from Trotsky’s son, Sedov, in a Copenhagen hotel.” He turned back toward the accused. “Why did Sedov want you to destroy the texts signed by Lenin and Stalin?”
“I asked him that very question,” Ignatiev testified in a dull voice. “He said that cleansing the libraries of Lenin and Stalin was the first phase of the intricately planned counterrevolution that would be launched by Trotsky. I happened to have been apprehended before the library wrecking program could swing into full gear. Stalin, along with you, comrade procurator general, and other members of the Soviet leadership, were to be eliminated, after which we Trotskyists would restore capitalism in Russia.”
There were angry cries from the crowd of Shame and Death is too good for the traitor. Comrade Vishinsky’s tone turned mild. “Do you, accused Ignatiev, affirm that your confession is voluntary, that you were not coerced in any manner or form by the interrogators assigned to your case?”
“I do.”
“Do you affirm the accuracy of your voluntary confession?”
“With the exception of the Hotel Bristol, I do.”
“One more thing,” Comrade Vishinsky said. “Be so kind as to tell the court how the members of the backup Trotskyist Paris-based anti-Bolshevik Center were supposed to recognize each other.”
“The recognition sign was the Eiffel Tower—it might be an Eiffel Tower sticker on a valise or a briefcase, it might be an Eiffel Tower pin in the buttonhole of a lapel, it might be an actual miniature of the Eiffel Tower set casually on a table or sideboard in someone’s office or apartment.”
Comrade Vishinsky returned to his bar and removed another charge sheet from the folder. “Galina Yegorova,” he called.
The woman sitting between Ignatiev and me got slowly to her feet. I guessed she must have been wearing the dress she had on at the time of her arrest. I say this because, like Ignatiev’s suit, it was very rumpled, the hem of the long skirt soiled as if it had been sweeping the ground for weeks. In addition the dress had a very un-Soviet low-cut bodice that was an insult to Bolshevik modesty. If Agrippina had turned up in an outfit like that, much as I love her she would have felt the back of my hand.
“The accused Yegorova, wife of the Red Army commander until recently in charge of a military district in Central Asia, is charged with anti-Soviet slander, treason and counterrevolutionary activities in violation of Penal Code Article 58. How is it you plead?”
When I heard the procurator general say her name, it hit me that this was the lady who was the talk of the Lubyanka. Prison scuttlebutt talked about a female inmate who was not only a well-known motion picture actress but a personal friend of Comrade Stalin’s. (I couldn’t help but wonder if he was sitting behind the tinted windows at the back of the courtroom watching her. I couldn’t help but think that if he was watching her, he would recognize me from the time he shook my hand in the Kremlin.) Something Agrippina once said when the director of our circus was arrested for skimming off ticket receipts came to mind: How the mighty have fallen. Clearly the same was true for the poor lady leaning her weight on the bar next to me to keep from sinking to her knees. She looked to be about forty going on sixty, if you catch my meaning. The skin on her face was white like a clown’s, her eyes were scared, her breasts were sagging so badly into her bodice you wanted to turn your head away from embarrassment. She squinted as if she was having trouble focusing on the procurator general and Their Honors the judges. I heard her say, in a hoarse voice, “Guilty.”
One of the judges called out, “You will have to speak up.”
“I plead guilty to the charges against me,” the lady said in a louder voice.
Again Comrade Vishinsky came out from behind the procurator’s bar and approached the accused. “Galina Yegorova, on or about sixteen March of this year, at a cocktail party celebrating the completion of your latest motion picture, you were heard to say”—he bent his head to the paper in his hands—“With all these terrorists loose in Moscow trying to kill Stalin, it is amazing he is still alive. Were those your words?”
“They were taken out of context,” she muttered.
“This is your last warning,” the judge said. “Speak up or we will hold you in contempt of this court.”
“The words were taken out of context, Your Honor. It was not my intention to cast doubt on the stories in Pravda concerning the terrorists known to be operating in Moscow, or the trials of terrorists who have admitted trying to assassinate members of the leadership. I was only suggesting that with all these terrorists active in the city, it was amazing, as in a miracle, that, thanks to the watchfulness of our Chekists, they had not succeeded in assassinating our beloved Josef Vissarionovich.”
On the raised platform, the three judges put their heads together. The lead judge addressed the witness. “Accused Yegorova, it cannot help your case that you refer to our esteemed leader by his name and patronymic. Outside his intimate circle of colleagues and friends, he is known as Comrade Stalin.”
Yegorova lowered her eyes. “I will not make the same mistake a second time, Your Honor.”
Comrade Vishinsky said, “If it pleases the court, I will offer in evidence the signed confession of Yegorova’s husband, who was arrested on the charge of high treason in January and has been cooperating with the interrogator since then.” Comrade Vishinsky placed a folder on the table in front of the judges.
“So noted,” the lead judge remarked and he began to leaf through the folder, passing pages to the other judges as he finished skimming them.
“Red Army Commander Yegorov has confessed to being an agent of the backup Trotskyist Paris-based anti-Bolshevik Center,” Comrade Vishinsky continued. “He has admitted organizing a counterrevolutionary uprising in the Central Asian military district of which he was the commander. He has also implicated his wife, the accused Galina Yegorova, in the plot to overthrow the existing order and restore capitalism under the leadership of the archtraitor Leon Trotsky.” Comrade procurator general absently polished the lenses of his eyeglasses with the tip of his tie. “Be so kind as to tell the court what your precise role was in this counterrevolutionary conspiracy.”
“Why don’t you just read it out from my husband’s confession? Better still, why don’t you put my husband on the witness stand and let him describe my role himself?”
There was a low growl from the audience in response to this arrogant outburst from the witness. Comrade Vishinsky scowled. “Commander Yegorov was so humiliated when his role in the conspiracy came to light that he attempted to kill himself by hitting his head against the stone wall of his cell. He is currently being tre
ated for a severe concussion in the Lubyanka clinic.”
“My husband’s confession was extracted under torture—”
Now there was a roar of real outrage from the audience. “Slander,” a woman shrieked.
“Defamation of our Chekists, who are the guardians of the Revolution,” another woman shouted.
The lead judge slammed his gavel down on the table. “Silence!” he roared. He addressed the accused Yegorova. “Is it your claim that your husband’s confession, which we have before our eyes—dated, bearing the interrogator’s official seal, signed by him and by two witnesses, signed also by the stenographer—was extracted under duress?”
“I am absolutely certain that Commander Yegorov is a loyal Stalinist and was never involved in any counterrevolutionary schemes,” Yegorova declared.
Comrade Vishinsky ran a finger between his starched collar and his neck. “You have admitted, under interrogation, that you served as a messenger for the backup Trotskyist Paris-based anti-Bolshevik Center. You have admitted that you were contacted by Trotsky’s son, Sedov, in a Berlin hotel when you attended the Berlin film festival in October of last year. Is the court to understand that you are withdrawing your confession?”
“I maintain my confession. I met Sedov in the Berlin hotel, the name of which slips my mind. He gave me a pack of German filter-tip cigarettes, the brand name of which slips my mind. Several of the cigarettes, so I was told, contained instructions for counterrevolutionary wrecking activities printed on the inside of the cigarette paper. Acting on Sedov’s instructions, I crossed the frontier back into the Soviet Union carrying the pack of cigarettes in full view in my leather purse. As I left the hotel room after my meeting with Sedov, he moistened the back of an Eiffel Tower sticker with his tongue and pasted it onto my purse as a recognition sign. He instructed me to deliver the cigarettes to the person in the central librarian’s office who had a similar sticker visible on his briefcase. This person, who was to pass on the wrecking instructions to other members of the backup Paris-based Trotskyist anti-Bolshevik Center, turned out to be the accused Ignatiev. At no time did I deliver the cigarettes and the instructions they contained to my husband or any of his officers or friends in the Central Asian military district. This I most emphatically deny.”
Comrade Vishinsky tossed his head. “What you are telling the court, accused Yegorova, contradicts your signed confession. You don’t deny that that is your signature on the notarized confession, which I have already placed in evidence before this court.”
“I was promised my life would be spared if I implicated my husband. In a moment of weakness I signed the confession that was put in front of me. The truth is that my husband is completely innocent. As God is my witness, he was unaware of my counterrevolutionary activities. Isn’t it enough that I admit my guilt? Why do you need to destroy the both of us?”
The lead judge said, “Your life depends on your telling the truth in this matter of the backup Trotskyist Paris-based anti-Bolshevik Center.”
The accused Yegorova’s strength gave out before my eyes and she sank to her knees, her chin resting on the low bar. The soldier posted behind her gripped her under the armpits and started to haul her to her feet. In the process a strap of her dress slipped off one shoulder, exposing a breast for everyone to see. I reached over before the soldier behind me could interfere (he was half my size and would have been hard put to restrain me if I wasn’t willing to be restrained) and pulled the strap back up on her shoulder.
Comrade Vishinsky, an experienced procurator, was unfazed by the turn of events. “Let the court note that in the face of two signed confessions, her own and that of her husband, the accused Yegorova has perjured herself to protect her husband; has in fact put loyalty to her traitor husband ahead of loyalty to the Soviet state and the Revolution. The evidence, Your Honors, is overwhelming. The counterrevolutionary activities of the accused Ignatiev and the accused Red Army commander Yegorov, who will be tried in a separate proceeding when he has recovered from his self-inflicted head wounds, bear out the conspiracy initiated by Trotsky’s son, Sedov, and transmitted to the Moscow section of the backup Trotskyist Paris-based anti-Bolshevik Center by the accused Yegorova.”
Comrade Vishinsky made his way back to the procurator general’s bar and opened a new folder, and I knew my turn had come at long last. To my delight, he called out my name.
“Fikrit Trofimovich Shotman.”
I saw Agrippina cover her eyes with her hands. I saw the men sitting on either side of her grip her wrists and pull her hands away from her face. I gave her an encouraging smile. “Present,” I cried in a loud and firm voice, “and eager to admit my guilt as I have come to understand it.” And before comrade procurator general could get his tongue around a question, I commenced my confession. I described in great detail how I had been recruited in Vienna, Austria in 1932 when I was representing the Soviet Union in the weight-lifting competition at the All-European games; how I’d been given a cash payment in United States dollars to finance my wrecking activities; how I’d communicated with my handler, an American secret agent masquerading as a weightlifter, using a secret code buried in the dedication inside the cover of an American fitness magazine; how, carried away by my hatred for the new order, I had even disfigured Stalin’s face tattooed on my upper arm. To dramatize the point, I flung off the jacket of my new suit, unbuttoned my shirt and bared my arm, angling my left biceps toward the crowd so they could all see the rope burn across the faded tattoo. In the front row, Agrippina turned her head away and I could make out enormous tears flowing down her beautiful cheeks, but I knew I was doing the right thing. I had Comrade Interrogator Christophorovich’s word for it. Comrade Vishinsky tried to interrupt as I was buttoning my shirt but I interrupted his interruption. “There’s more,” I declared, climbing back into my jacket, and I told about the worthless Tsarist loan coupons I kept in my trunk against the day when Trotsky’s counterrevolution, in which I was a foot soldier, drove the Bolsheviks from power and restored capitalism in Soviet Russia, at which point my Tsarist coupons could be redeemed at their face value. Comrade procurator general took advantage of me having to come up for air to inquire about the significance of the Eiffel Tower sticker on my steamer trunk. “I’m glad you asked—I almost forgot about the Eiffel Tower. Let me say, for those of you not familiar with it, that the Eiffel Tower located in Paris, France doesn’t hold a candle to the towers you can find in our own Soviet Union. True, they may not be as big as the one in Paris, France but every woman knows it’s not size that counts.” Some of the ladies in the courtroom started giggling, but shut up when one of the judges tapped his wooden gavel on the table. The judge nodded at me to continue, and I did. “When I was recruited into the backup Trotskyist Paris-based anti-Bolshevik Center during the All-Europe games in Vienna, Austria, I was given the Eiffel Tower sticker and ordered to paste it on my steamer trunk as a recognition signal so that other conspirators in the backup Trotskyist Paris-based anti-Bolshevik Center could identify me as a member of this gang.”
The lead judge spoke up from his high-backed throne on the raised platform. “Let me say it is to the credit of the accused Shotman that he has chosen to make a clean breast of his crimes. Anyone with a grain of sense can see that he is not attempting to hide, or mitigate, his guilt, and this will certainly be taken into consideration when it comes time to pass sentence.”
I didn’t understand what the judge meant by mitigate, but I nodded my thanks to him from my place in the box of the accused.
The lady judge sitting to the right of the lead judge raised a finger. “I would like to ask the accused Shotman precisely what his role was in the backup Trotskyist Paris-based anti-Bolshevik Center.”
“My role?”
“What were you supposed to do to further the counterrevolution?” the lady judge explained.
I looked over at Christophorovich for a sign of what I might answer—he had never raised this matter with me when I rehearsed my confession�
��but there was no help to be had from him. I glanced at Agrippina, but she avoided my eye. I turned to the lady judge. “Why, my role was to wreck. I signed on as a wrecker.”
“Wreck what?” the lady judge persisted.
I shrugged. “Until my knee went bad, I was a champion weight lifter. Until my arrest, I was a circus strongman. Look at me, Your Honors. Look at my hands. Look at my shoulders. I can wreck whatever I am told needs wrecking.”
Comrade Vishinsky came to my rescue. “It is clear from his confession that the accused Shotman was ready to follow wrecking instructions sent to him by the backup Trotskyist Paris-based anti-Bolshevik Center. There may have been specific wrecking instructions from Sedov printed inside one of the cigarettes that the accused Yegorova delivered to the accused Ignatiev, but were never forwarded due to the timely arrest of these two conspirators. The important element to bear in mind is that the accused Shotman was a member of the conspiracy and ready to carry out Sedov’s wrecking orders when they reached him.”
The lead judge looked over at me. “Does the accused Shotman wish to add anything to his testimony?”
It was here that I came up with the words Christophorovich had drummed into my head. “No matter what my punishment will be, Your Honors, I in advance consider it just.” I looked intently at the tinted windows at the back of the courtroom. “Let us all go forward behind Comrade Stalin.”
Several in the courtroom—Christophorovich, Islam Issa, the lady who had taken down my confession, some of the lady clerks—began clapping their hands. Others joined them until the entire room was filled with applause. Flashbulbs went off in my face. I felt Agrippina’s eyes on me and comprehended that, for once, she would not be ashamed of her Fikrit. I turned to the audience and, my knuckles scraping the floor of the prisoner’s box, bowed from the waist.
The Stalin Epigram Page 19