The Last Paradise

by Antonio Garrido

  “Of my parents.”

  “You’re joking, right? We’ve got to get away from here, and all we need for that is our driver’s licenses.”

  “What?”

  “We’d need them to get a passport. You do have your license on you, right?”

  “I already have a passport. But why the hell would I need it?”

  “Hey, I can’t force you to leave the country, but if Kowalski’s dead . . .”

  “Damn it, Walter! You said yourself that we don’t know if he is.”

  “All right. Let’s keep calm.” He lit a crumpled cigarette and inhaled. He offered one to Jack, who readily accepted. The smoke tasted of ink. “OK. Give me the keys!”

  “Huh?”

  “Give me the fucking keys! I’ll go to your father’s apartment and pick up your things.”

  “Are you nuts? I ain’t gonna let you put yourself in danger. I’ll go myself.”

  Walter put his hands in Jack’s pockets and snatched the keys.

  “You can’t so much as move. Anyway, do you think I’m an idiot? I’ll only go in if the coast’s clear.” He cleaned his glasses and pulled his hat down to his ears. “No one in that neighborhood knows me. If I get the chance, I’ll ask about Kowalski. Maybe the slug just scratched him.”

  “All right. But be careful. I couldn’t bear to lose my only friend.”

  “Don’t worry, Jack. We’ll get out of this, you’ll see.”

  4

  Jack gazed at the rays of light filtering in through the holes that the rust had bored through the metal shutter at the entrance. He clenched his teeth. His head felt as if it had been stomped on, but the cause was neither the ink fumes nor the blows from the goons. He went back to the chair where he’d spent the entire night thinking about the tragic death of Solomon Beilis. He might not have been the most caring of fathers, but he had been the only father that Jack had. He kicked a bundle of newspapers, which flew in all directions like leaves in the wind.

  He looked at the rays of light again. Walter had assured him he’d be back before dawn, but that was already a couple of hours ago. Jack began to consider the possibility that his friend had been caught.

  He decided to light what remained of the candle and conduct a cursory inspection of the premises, something he’d avoided doing in the night, fearing someone might notice the light and discover him. When the wick flared up, a weak light illuminated the space, revealing a clutch of machines that looked unusable, posters strewn on the workbenches, dried-up ink rollers, and rusty guillotines. He examined a few of the posters, and seeing that they consisted entirely of anti-capitalist screeds, he left them where he’d found them. Heading to the cubicle where Walter had told him the lavatory was, he discovered an open drain in the floor. Beside the lavatory was a little window closed with a shutter. He gave it a couple of whacks, and the lock flew apart, the hatch coming away from one of its hinges. He peered through the cavity. The window looked out onto a small well. He breathed with satisfaction, knowing that, if necessary, he could jump outside. He blew out the candle. The morning light was coming in through the window, brightening the room. His stomach complained of hunger.

  He allowed the hours to pass—six more than he’d agreed with Walter. His watch showed twelve o’clock. He paced from one corner of the room to another. He was beginning to consider making his escape, when suddenly he heard some quick footsteps that stopped at the entrance. Jack pricked up his ears and stood in silence. Then he gave a start when he realized that the padlock was being handled. He prayed for it to be Walter but retreated to the window, fearing it could be the police. Slowly, the shutter was lifted. Fixing his eyes on the metal screen, Jack felt his pulse surge. When it was halfway up, he threw caution to the wind. “Walter?” he asked. But no one answered. He decided he had to escape.

  He was about to jump out of the window when a soft voice told him to stop. Jack slowly turned. When his eyes had become accustomed to the light, he could not believe what he saw. At the entrance, silhouetted against the clear day, stood the slender figure of a young woman.

  Once inside, she told him her name was Sue and that she was Walter’s fiancée. Before Jack could utter a word, she lowered the shutter and added that Walter had sent her to help him. She took a loaf of bread from her worn purse and handed it to him.

  Jack didn’t respond. As he tucked into the bread, he stole a glance at the newcomer. She might not have been a classic beauty, but she was the kind of vivacious girl who would attract the gaze of any young man. She was a redhead, her age probably close to his own, though she could easily have been younger, slim as she was. He suddenly realized that he had forgotten the most important thing.

  “Where’s Walter?” he finally asked.

  “To be honest, I don’t know. He said he had to take care of some business; that’s all he’d tell me.” She smiled.

  Jack swallowed the last mouthful of bread and licked the crumbs from his lips. He asked for a cigarette, but Sue didn’t have any with her.

  “And did he tell you when he’d be back?” He didn’t want to be more explicit—he was unsure how much the girl knew about the fight with Kowalski’s men.

  “No, but I don’t think he’ll be long. Truth is, he was being pretty mysterious, and my Walter isn’t like that. Did something happen?”

  Jack tried to change the subject. New York girls loved to talk about their boyfriends, so he steered the conversation in that direction. Sue was true to form and chattered away. She told him that she’d met Walter four years ago, at the diner where she served coffee, and that since then they’d been inseparable.

  “Moody’s was out there, opposite the printer’s. Walter had breakfast there every morning, and sometimes, when I served him, he’d tell me wonderful stories about equality between races and peoples.” Her freckled face lit up. “He was so interesting . . . so different from the other oafish guys. But that was before they closed the diner. Well, Moody’s and every other restaurant in the area,” she complained. “Now I clean stairways for a pittance.”

  Jack believed her. It was obvious from her threadbare stockings, the ladders of which she’d tried to mend with little success. The young woman fell silent for a while, and then said, “Has Jack told you about our plans?” Her pearly eyes were bright with joy. “He must have. Walter tells everyone. We’re going to leave this damned country soon and go to a place where happiness isn’t just for the rich. We’re going to Russia . . . the last paradise—”

  Jack struggled to his feet and limped to the shutter, cutting the girl short. He looked through a crack. “Well, I hope it works out nicely for you,” he said tersely before locking the shutter from the inside with the padlock and going back to his chair.

  “Wow, you’re quite the talker! Not like my Walter, he—”

  “Are you sure you don’t know where he is right now?” Jack cut in. Sue’s smile froze.

  “I told you. He had to take care of some business,” she replied, clearly irritated. “He said to me that we shouldn’t worry, to wait for him to get back.”

  “Very well. We’ll wait.”

  Jack picked up some pamphlets, planning to pass the time reading them.

  It was two hours before the screech of brakes tore him from his thoughts. He immediately ran toward the window, but Sue, who had already gone to the shutter to peer through a crack, reassured him.

  “It’s Walter.”

  “Walter has a car?” He was surprised.

  “Come on! Help me with the shutter.”

  Jack ran to assist her. As they lifted it, Walter’s face appeared, looking troubled under his large tortoiseshell spectacles.

  “Make some space! We have to hide this old clunker!” he said.

  Jack couldn’t imagine where Walter had found a car, but he supposed it must be part of his escape plan. He and Sue moved aside the junk that blocked the path, and Walter accelerated the old Studebaker until it almost hit the Linotype. Then he leapt out of the car, and together with Jack,
lowered the shutter.

  “What happened?” Jack stammered. Walter’s face was flushed as he took Jack’s arm and moved him away from Sue.

  “Bad news,” he whispered as he looked back to check that the young woman wasn’t listening. “Kowalski . . .” He shook his head and clenched his teeth.

  “What?” Jack felt a knot form in his stomach.

  “He died this morning.”

  “Oh God!” He slumped into a chair.

  “We have to disappear, Jack. Take a ship to Russia, right now. It’s that or we’ll both be off to the gas chamber.”

  “For Christ’s sake! How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t want to go to Russia,” he growled.

  “Then you should reconsider. Anyway, they’re not just after you; they’re searching for me, too,” replied Walter. “I’ve risked my neck to help you, but if you want to throw your life away, I won’t try to stop you. Your things are on the car seat.”

  Jack didn’t reply. He went to the automobile and opened the door. There was little there worth keeping: a couple of changes of clothes, a worn-out overcoat, a folder containing various documents, a broken old phonograph, and the splintered picture frame with the photograph of his mother, which he contemplated as intensely as the semidarkness allowed.

  “And my passport?”

  “It wasn’t there, and I didn’t see much else,” Walter said apologetically. “When I arrived, the door had been kicked down and the apartment turned upside down. That was all they left. I put a chest of stuff in the trunk. Here. Your driver’s license. Now you can go and ruin your life.”

  Jack didn’t hear him. His hands trembled, clutching Irina’s portrait. Then he cursed himself. The only option he had thought up involved fleeing to Canada via Buffalo, but for that he probably needed a passport. It was as if Walter read his mind.

  “I could get you one,” Jack heard his friend say. He looked at him in silence and understood that he was at his friend’s mercy.

  “The Amtorg offices close at five. Come on, honey, finish with that blusher—it’s a fair way to go from Long Island to Fifth Avenue!” Walter said to Sue.

  Jack was certain that going to the Soviet trading corporation was a mistake, but he had resigned himself to going along with Walter’s idea.

  Inside the Studebaker, the three of them went over the plan before leaving. Walter, knowing the Soviets’ interest in broadcasting the virtues of their revolution to the capitalist countries, would apply to join one of the overseas propaganda units run from Moscow. He would highlight his affiliation with the Communist Party USA, as well as his experience as a printer. Sue would offer herself as a librarian and sympathizer to the cause.

  “And you, Jack, you’ll be my assistant. Since you speak perfect Russian, I’ll tell them that I need you as an interpreter.”

  Jack pulled his hat down as far as it would go, and squeezed the iron paperweight that he’d hidden in his pocket to use as a weapon in case of an emergency. He remained unconvinced, but he had decided to trust his friend.

  “OK. Crank her up.”

  The Studebaker shuddered as Walter hit the gas. As they crossed the Queensboro Bridge heading toward Manhattan, Jack turned to watch Brooklyn’s buildings disappear from view. Then he turned back and looked ahead, trying to persuade himself that all he was leaving behind was the grayish smoke that the Studebaker kicked out through its exhaust pipe.

  It was 4:50 p.m. when traffic forced them to slow almost to a standstill. Walter snaked between the mass of vehicles, swearing and honking the horn as though his life depended on it, until a delivery truck stopped dead and forced him to swerve. Finally, somewhere between the Flatiron and the Empire State Buildings, he parked the car. Sue waited in the vehicle to avoid a parking ticket, while Jack and Walter got out and dashed into 261 Fifth Avenue. Jack didn’t even pay attention to which floor they were heading to. His friend dragged him along, not giving him much chance to stop and think. They both took a deep breath as they waited for the elevator to reach its destination. When the elevator doors at last opened, they found themselves at the back of a long line of ragged creatures that led to a door with a plaque over it:

  AMTORG TRADING CORPORATION

  AMERIKANSKOE TORGOVLYE

  Jack felt a tremor in his stomach. It was the second time he’d seen a Russian text that week. The first was the epitaph that he had commissioned for his father’s gravestone.

  The enormous line did not dampen Walter’s spirits. He handed Jack an Amtorg pamphlet to read while he waited, and cut the line, ignoring the insults and accusations directed at him.

  While he waited, Jack noted that the applicants in front of him looked much like the poor wretches he saw on the breadline every morning. The main difference was that, while few women went to the soup kitchens, entire families waited in the Amtorg line. He listened to the families chatting merrily about the beautiful cities they’d visit, the salaries they’d receive, or the homes they’d be provided with. Some workingmen clutched documents that qualified them as miners, electricians, or builders. A couple of them even carried their own tools.

  Jack was surprised to hear that the Quaker family in front of him had sold its land in Illinois to pay for the voyage after some neighbors did the same and were now enjoying a new life in Leningrad. And that the woman with thin hair holding her sick child in her arms had been promised that the Soviets would provide her with the medicine they lacked in America. He was impressed. Men and women who had lost even the dignity of believing they were human beings smiled with optimism and held their heads high again.

  To pass the time, he opened the promotional booklet that Walter had handed him, and began to read it closely.

  Sue’s sudden appearance interrupted his reading. He was glad to see her. The young woman had climbed the stairs, and the effort had caused her face to flush red, making her glow with vitality. She took Jack’s arm as if they were a couple. It made him feel a little uncomfortable, but he allowed Sue to grip him while she peered through the crowd of people waiting in line. He explained that Walter had introduced himself to a receptionist and slipped into an office.

  “And why did you come up?” Jack asked.

  “I was bored.” She assured Jack that she’d persuaded the parking attendant not to give them a ticket. “Look, Jack, there’re even Negroes waiting,” she said, amazed.

  Jack had seen them and had also been surprised. Yet the two men seemed unaware of the stares from the rest of the line.

  At that moment, an Amtorg representative, squeezed into a suit two sizes too small for his large frame, appeared, and shouted out to the applicants that the office was closing for the day.

  “We will see you tomorrow, with number assigned to you,” he added in a strong Russian accent.

  Jack did not take the hint until the large man insisted that they leave the office.

  “We’re waiting for a friend. He’s inside.”

  “We don’t have friends in Amtorg,” the Soviet official replied.

  Walter then appeared through a door and gestured to them to go in.

  “Well, that is a shame,” Sue said with a smile to the official, and she pulled Jack into the room.

  Once inside, Walter introduced them to a well-built man in his fifties with a serious face, his eyes sheltered by thick, wiry eyebrows.

  “This is Saul Bron, head of Amtorg in the States. For all intents and purposes, he’s the Soviet ambassador,” Walter added smugly.

  Jack noticed an expression of satisfaction on Walter’s face that he had never seen before. Sue let go of Jack and held her hand out to the senior official.

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said, and improvised a ridiculous bow.

  “Right,” said Saul Bron, taking his seat behind the giant mahogany desk that dominated the office. “You must be Mr. Scott’s friends. Please, make yourself comfortable. Mr. Scott tells me that you wish to join the honorable cause of our beloved Soviet Union.” He indicated the portrait that hung from the
wall behind him.

  Sue nodded with a picture-perfect smile, while Saul Bron waited for Jack’s confirmation. At that moment, he was preoccupied by the stern-looking man with a large mustache who appeared in the portrait. He recognized the figure as Joseph Stalin—it was the same photograph he had seen in booklets at the printer’s.

  “And you?” the head of Amtorg insisted.

  “Me, too,” was all Jack said, with all the emotion of a waxwork.

  Saul Bron cleared his throat, opened the file that lay on the desk, and looked over the document.

  “Walter has already told me about Sue. With regard to you, Mr. Beilis, he said your parents were Russian.”

  “That’s right. From Saint Petersburg.”

  “You mean Leningrad.”

  “Sorry, yes. From Leningrad,” Jack corrected himself, remembering that, following the revolution, the Soviets had renamed the city after the Bolshevik leader.

  “Do you still have relatives in Russia?”

  “No. My grandparents were Ukrainian, from Odessa, but I never met them. They died soon after I was born.”

  “And in America? Do you have family?”

  “No, not here, either.” Walter had warned him against mentioning his capitalist relatives, and anyway, his uncle, Gabriel Beilis, was dead to him.

  “And tell me, Jack. Why did your parents immigrate to the United States?”

  “Hunger, I suppose.” His expression hardened.

  “Do you know whether you are related to the Beilises of Kiev?”

  “Not that I know of. It would be the first I’ve heard of it. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious. There was a Menahem Beilis in Russia accused of murdering a child. A notorious case. He was tried and found innocent. He lives here now, in the United States, and has written a book on the outrages perpetrated by the Russians on the Jews. You will understand why I ask. We don’t want to have any misunderstandings.”

  “As I say, I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Good. One final question. Was your family associated in any way with the tsarist forces, the nobility, the bourgeoisie, the White Army, or the Orthodox Church?”