“Why ask question? To work in Soviet Union, you not need passports.”
The Daniels family and Joe Brown also had their passports taken. However, like the rest of the immigrants, they were given a typewritten receipt so that, when the time came, they could retrieve them.
With the paperwork done, the sixty-eight Americans were led on foot across the snow-covered mile and a quarter between the Eastern District stop and what was known as Fordville, or the American village, the complex of prefabricated bunkhouses built to house the Avtozavod’s foreign workers.
As they approached, Jack gazed at the apartment buildings. Though newly built, the timber of the walls and roofs, along with their squat size and the wire fencing that encircled the site, made them look like giant stables. They were nothing like the family homes that Walter had described, but taking shelter in a barrel would have been preferable to spending a moment longer exposed to the cold, so Jack ignored the soulless appearance of the buildings and, along with the rest of the workers, sought refuge inside. Finally, after weeks of hardship, laughter and jubilation took hold of the Americans, and the cold and the fear disappeared. Joe Brown asked Jack to pinch him, but Sue got in first and gave him a shove that did nothing to diminish the daft smile spread across his face. The man couldn’t believe what he was seeing. In his fifty-three years of life, working from dawn to dusk with no vacation or Sundays off, he had never had so much as a new mattress, and now, in front of him, like a Christmas gift, there they were waiting for him: a new home and a salary of two hundred dollars a month, all for tightening a few screws.
Jack would’ve loved to go to see the baseball field, the social club, and the other facilities that the veteran Americans who had come to welcome them wanted to show them, but a young Soviet guard appeared and stopped him. He said he had come on behalf of Wilbur Hewitt, and added that the industrialist was waiting for Jack in his office.
Jack understood that it wasn’t an invitation. He gave his luggage to the Daniels family to take to his room and said good-bye to everyone.
“But, Jack! You’ll miss the welcome party they’ve laid out for us!” Sue complained.
“Then save me some cake!” he yelled as he went out into the blizzard and headed to the old truck where the guard was waiting for him with the engine running.
The vehicle roared as its heavy wheels turned on their axles, fighting to free themselves from the nasty mixture of mud and snow that the road had become. As they built up speed, Jack could see that the fresh-faced youngster was enjoying squeezing the truck for every ounce of power it had left in it, thrashing it about on the factory’s tracks as if it were a giant iron toy. Between potholes, Jack noticed the blue ribbon around the kid’s peaked cap, which was different from the one worn by the guards at the gates. He considered asking him why there was so much security, but something told him that curiosity would be about as helpful here as washing his hands in a bowl of acid. Instead, he gripped his seat and allowed the young guard to concentrate on his crazed sprint across the site.
Finally, the vehicle stopped by a guard station with a screech that made Jack think the bearings had breathed their last breath. The driver turned off the engine, waved at the sentry, and after showing his ID, asked Jack to accompany him. Heading through an administrative building crammed with workers, they stopped in front of an office where the sign on the door read:
SERGEI LOBAN
DIRECTOR OF OPERATIONS
Jack was silent. He looked at the driver for an explanation, but the youngster just knocked on the door and waited for an answer. When Jack heard Sergei’s voice, he could not prevent a slight shudder.
The director of operations received Jack while leaning back in his armchair, with the same dour portraits of Lenin and Stalin behind him that seemed to look over every room in the Soviet Union. By the armchair of frayed felt stood a coatrack from which hung a thick fur overcoat and a peaked cap trimmed with blue ribbon. Sergei Loban put out his cigarette in a half-drunk glass of tea, dismissed the driver, and asked Jack to take a seat on one of two red leather armchairs. Jack obeyed, anxious to find out why he now found himself in that office and not Hewitt’s.
“You should trust your hosts more,” Sergei replied when Jack questioned him about it. “Mr. Hewitt had to tend to some urgent business, and since you’re going to be doing the job entrusted to Mr. McMillan, I thought it would be good to welcome you on board officially.”
Jack didn’t know whether to believe him. He decided to remain wary, given the first impression he’d had of Sergei on the SS Cliffwood. “Please accept my apologies,” he said, trying to rescue the situation. “I can assure you that I’m most grateful to the Soviet people, and my intention is only to do the best job I can in the tasks I’ve been assigned. I was just confused because Mr. Hewitt had told me how much work there is to do, particularly on the assembly line and press shop, and I imagined he’d called me here to bring me up to speed. I found you, and that’s why I was surprised.”
“I understand. Very well. Wait one moment, and I’ll see if Mr. Hewitt’s free.” He picked up the telephone and dialed a number.
While he waited, Jack noticed a picture frame showing a photograph of Stalin shaking Sergei’s hand, at what appeared to be the factory’s grand opening. He heard Sergei ask whether the industrialist had finished the business he’d been taking care of. When he hung up, he smiled in a way that Jack hadn’t seen before.
“Mr. Hewitt’s able to receive you now. As you can see, Jack, we Bolsheviks aren’t the ogres that everyone makes us out to be.” He stood to bring the conversation to a close and show Jack the exit. “However . . .” He stopped in the middle of the office.
“Yes, Mr. Loban?”
“However, make sure you respect us. This isn’t America.” His smile was gone.
“Oh, don’t let the Soviets’ chest-beating scare you,” said Wilbur Hewitt as he shook off the nurse who was trying her best to apply iodine to the scars on his injured arm.
Jack watched Hewitt lower his sleeve with difficulty and head to his office armchair. Perhaps he was a presumptuous, eccentric type, but though Jack knew him only from a couple of conversations, he had the feeling that the American executive was the kind of person who could push men to work harder with just a couple of sharp remarks. And he admired him for that. He imagined that nobody in the Soviet Union would dispute his effectiveness as a leader. However, at that precise moment, it wasn’t Wilbur Hewitt who had captured all of Jack’s attention; it was the young nurse who was gathering her equipment with the care of a mother arranging her sick child’s medicines. Jack had been aware of every movement that she’d made since he walked into the office.
He found her very attractive. In fact, she was the first Russian woman he’d encountered who in his view deserved that description, though that was probably because every other Soviet woman he’d seen had been on the street, covered from head to toe to keep warm. Her beauty might not have been like a Hollywood starlet’s. On the contrary, her soft, clean features were those of a simple young woman who, though she knew she was attractive, gave off an image of seriousness and reliability.
He guessed she was around twenty-five years old. Perhaps less. Her fresh-looking face without a trace of makeup, her long braids gathered over her temples like two nesting snakes, her emerald eyes, focusing only on the medical tasks for which they’d been trained, and the masculine white coat that looked like it had been washed a thousand times gave her a smart, no-nonsense appearance. Jack was admiring her delicate movements and the name “Natasha” on her badge when Hewitt cleared his throat loudly.
“Excuse the mess, kid. They won’t leave me alone. Clearly, these Russians ain’t gonna let me die until I’ve got this factory working.”
The young nurse blushed when she realized she was being referred to. She quickly finished gathering her equipment and took her leave from Hewitt, reminding him of their appointment the next day.
“Yes, yes, tomorrow,” he said
wearily, and he waited for her to leave. “So then, Jack. Have you settled in?”
“Not quite, sir. I was about to move into my living quarters when a guard showed up and brought me here. Incidentally, first he took me to see Sergei’s office.”
“What? Oh yeah! I told you he was in charge of the Avtozavod’s security. Sergei works, eats, and sleeps in this factory. He loves everyone to know that he’s doing his job.”
“What’s with the caps with blue ribbons? Their wearers look as if they think they own the place.”
“You noticed, huh? Well, you were right to. Those ribbons are the emblem of the OGPU. So that we’re clear, that’s the secret police. Some people still call them the Cheka. We have to be careful with them. You can’t imagine the headaches they could give us.”
Jack remembered the corrupt policeman he’d bribed in Leningrad to rescue Konstantin’s son. “Secret? Why secret?”
“A revolutionary thing, I suspect.” He lay back in his chair, crossed his legs on the table, and lit a cigarette. “When the Bolsheviks toppled the tsar, they set up various organizations for both domestic and international security. There were foreign powers trying to stop them with all kinds of conspiracies, even backing counterrevolutionary groups who undermined the revolution from the shadows. The Cheka was formed from elements of the Red Army and party leaders, as a kind of state security organization aimed at eliminating their opponents.” He lowered his feet from the table and sat up, moving his head in the direction of Jack’s ear, as if to tell him a secret. “To do away with anyone who contradicted them, shall we say.”
“They sound dangerous.”
“Potentially.” He sat back again. “I haven’t had any problems with them, though I tread carefully. Don’t worry about Sergei. All he cares about is giving the factory a veneer of normality, and to do that, he needs to get rid of the saboteurs.
“Anyway, let’s focus on what concerns us, which is this dinosaur of a factory.” He opened a drawer and took out a brown folder that he placed on the desk. “Here’s the information I couldn’t provide you with in Moscow: plans, machinery inventory, subsidiary enterprises that work with us, and a file listing the incidents and the workers involved. Like I said, most of the problems have been in the press shop and assembly plant. Unfortunately, I don’t have a complete record of all of the employees.”
“But you’ll be able to get one?”
“I think it’ll be difficult. More than thirty thousand people divided into three shifts work at the Avtozavod. And we have to be discreet. If I asked for such an exhaustive list, it could make someone involved in the sabotage suspicious.”
“Well, I really only need records for the plants where the incidents have taken place.”
“I’ll see what I can do, but for now you’ll have to make do with this.” He pushed the folder containing all of the documents toward Jack and stood to bring the meeting to an end.
“When do I start?” Jack also stood as quickly as possible.
“The first shift’s tomorrow at eight. At seven, they’ll come to collect you and your friends. By the way, I have to admit that posting your companions to the various locations of the incidents is the perfect way to gather information without attracting attention.”
“Let’s hope it helps. Like I said, I’ll be able to speak to them whenever I need to, and they’ll tell me everything they see.”
“Great. So we’re all set, then. Spend these first few days familiarizing yourself with the factory and making contact with the workers while you oversee the repairs on the machinery damaged during the crossing. Unless you discover something important in the interim, we’ll meet again in this office next week.”
“Very well, Mr. Hewitt. This . . . There’s one more thing. If you don’t mind my asking, I was wondering about your niece. In such a remote part of the world, and without knowing the language, maybe she’d like some company.”
“Gosh darn, kid! Aren’t you married?”
“Yes, sir. Well, no, sir. I mean—”
“In hell’s name, explain yourself! You’re either married or you aren’t.”
“The thing is”—he figured it was best to tell the truth—“in order to help my two friends, a couple, enter the Soviet Union, we had to fabricate a marriage. Now that we’re here, we’ve kept up the sham, but I swear that I intend to resolve this business as soon as possible and—”
“Ha! Don’t trouble yourself on my niece’s account, son. Elizabeth has eyes only for rich guys like Smirnov—that’s the kind of man she wants to be with. I doubt my niece would mind spending the rest of her life with you if you were a sultan, harem included.”
“I’m sorry. I was just trying to be friendly.” He cleared his throat. “One last question.” Jack stopped in the doorway. “At the gates, they confiscated our passports. Do you know anything about that?”
Wilbur Hewitt stood in silence while he finished his cigarette. He clenched his teeth and sat down. “I know a little. What I don’t know is whether you’ll want to hear it.”
15
Jack was oblivious to the skidding and jamming of brakes as the truck hurtled him back toward the American village, because in his head all he could hear were Wilbur Hewitt’s final words: The OGPU retains all the Americans’ passports because their intention is for their owners never to leave the Soviet Union. And he’d added, But don’t worry, if you need to get back when all of this is over, I’ll help you out.
When all of this was over . . . But what if things didn’t go as Hewitt planned? What if the industrialist returned to the United States before anything was uncovered and forgot about his promise? Or what if Jack simply wanted to start a new life in another country? What would he do then? For the immigrants traveling from the other side of the world to put down roots in a country that guaranteed secure work, it might seem a minor inconvenience to have their passports confiscated, but to Jack, it was as reassuring as taking a nap next to a nest of vipers. Why did the Soviets take their passports? Was there something about the Americans they were afraid of?
Why did he care so much? Right then, not only did he have no intention of leaving the Soviet Union, but for him as a fugitive, returning to the United States was out of the question.
He breathed in the icy air that seeped in through the crack in the window, trying to find a moment of clarity that would allow him to reflect properly on his future. The driver, seeing him, gave a stupid smile, as if he imagined that the jolting vehicle had made Jack queasy and as if that were something to be proud of.
Jack closed his eyes. He should really consider himself lucky, he thought. After all, the country that had welcomed him was the land of his parents, a great and powerful nation of hardworking, hospitable people—at that very moment, a driver was taking him to a hot bowl of soup and a free room. What was more, he knew the language, he was surrounded by friends and fellow Americans, and he was going to be paid a salary he’d never dreamed of. Twelve hundred bucks a month! If he kept it going, in five years he’d be sitting on a fortune.
Yes. He was lucky, for sure.
In the canteen, Jack felt like he was back in the States. Dozens of his fellow countrymen were crammed into a timber-clad room decorated for the occasion with handmade American flags and paper balloons, making merry like he’d never expected to witness again. The partygoers sang, laughed, and danced to old-time hillbilly music played on a banjo and two fiddles by a trio of drunken musicians who seemed to be competing with the yelps of the dancers.
Jack spotted the Daniels family and started to make his way to them, eager both to share their happiness and the food and bottle of vodka that sat on their little table. Before he reached them, however, a group of workers pulled him into their circle as if he were one of the gang and forced him to sing along to an off-key “Cripple Creek” to which they were making up the words. Finally, he managed to shake off his new friends with a smile and sit with the Danielses. Harry seemed to be enjoying the party and insisted Jack down a cup of
vodka in one go, like a real man. Jack was soon infected by the merry atmosphere, due in no small part to the copious amounts of sausage, bacon, barbecued ribs, and blinis with cream cheese that the cooks had prepared for the welcome celebration.
After finishing off the cup of vodka, he listened to his belly and set to eating what was left of the feast. He took a bite from some sort of hot dog that Harry offered him, and took another sip of vodka to wash it down as he looked around at the people enjoying themselves. He was surprised not to see Sue, but when he asked Harry Daniels about her, he told Jack that she’d drunk too much and had gone back to her room.
Jack set aside his worries and joined the dancers. He ate and drank as if there were no tomorrow until, at around nine o’clock, the women started to clear up. First the trays, then their husbands, dragging them to their rooms. Jack and the Daniels family were among the last to leave. They could barely speak due to the alcohol, but babbling and laughing, they agreed on their way back to their rooms that traveling to Russia had been the best decision they’d ever made.
After trying to insert it in the lock for the third time, Jack looked with a puzzled expression at the key that Harry had just given him. He held it near the lightbulb in the corridor to make sure it wasn’t bent, then tried again. When he thought he was about to manage it, the key slipped through his fingers. Aware of his drunkenness, he smiled like an idiot. At last, he managed to get it in and make it turn. He staggered into the dark room and tripped on his suitcase. He was feeling the wall in search of a switch when a sudden flash lit up the room, blinding him. Jack covered his eyes with his hand, and through the crack between his eyelids, he was amazed to see a figure sitting up in the bed that was positioned in the middle of the room. He was making his retreat when he realized that the person looking at him with surprise was Sue.
He was about to apologize, when she got in ahead of him. “Come in and close the door! You’re going to wake the neighbors!”
The Last Paradise Page 17