The Last Paradise

by Antonio Garrido

  As Hewitt had told Jack, her maidservant was the only person able to contain her, and perhaps that was why Elizabeth made no objection when the woman requested to return to the United States.

  Jack offered to teach Elizabeth Russian when he was off work, to help her fill up some of her free time, but Hewitt didn’t even consider it. His niece knew exactly what she wanted, and it didn’t include learning new languages. Not unless the person teaching her was rich enough for her to find him attractive.

  “And how rich would that be?” Jack asked.

  Hewitt burst into laughter. “More than you could earn in a lifetime, you can be sure of that, son.”

  His reply didn’t impress Jack. He was ready to show Hewitt that, even compared to Smirnov, Jack Beilis was a good catch.

  16

  Just one in twenty-two.

  After studying every word of the reports, Jack had reached the conclusion that, of the twenty-two accidents that had taken place in the various Avtozavod plants, twenty-one seemed to be the result of the factory’s abysmal administration. However, for one he had found no explanation.

  He informed Wilbur Hewitt of his conclusions.

  “Are you absolutely certain?” the industrialist asked him after running his eyes over Jack’s report.

  “Absolutely. First I separated the incidents in which workers had been involved from those that affected only machinery or production. I was able to consult the files for the injured operatives.” He showed them to Hewitt. “Igor Pavlov, twenty-six years old, Ukrainian, left arm amputated when he got it caught in a press while it was running. Outcome: production halted for twenty-six hours for cleaning and repairs to the molds.”

  “And?” Hewitt felt his arm in its sling.

  “Now comes the worrying part. Previous profession: farmer. Experience as operative: two weeks’ training and one week as a worker.”

  “I see . . .”

  “Olga Moskovskaya.” Jack laid the file on the desk. “Thirty-four years old, Azerbaijani, several cuts to her face and chest that required stitches when her hair was caught in the engine conveyor belt. Outcome: production interrupted for one hour to free her clothing and hair. Previous profession: farmer. Experience as operative: one week’s training and one day as a worker.

  “Mikhail Lenovski, eighteen years old—”

  “Also with no experience, I presume. Is every case the same?” Hewitt broke in.

  “Almost identical: peasants, farmers, housewives, herders . . .”

  “Good. Nothing more than carelessness, then. And the rest?”

  “Sir, I wouldn’t call these accidents careless, when they could have been prevented if—”

  “Sure, sure. But it’s not what concerns us. Go on, please.”

  Jack cleared his throat. He set aside the files on the injured workers and moved on to the incidents that affected the equipment. He explained that most of them could be attributed to a lack of maintenance, misalignments, insufficient lubrication, corroded bearings, belts not being replaced, design faults, or mechanisms not being properly cleaned. “But there’s one”—he set aside the rest of the files—“for which I have yet to find an explanation. It happened on January 1, 1933, in the engine plant, the very day that Stalin visited Gorky to inaugurate the production line. According to the official reports, a copy of which you have in your own files, during the afternoon shift, the power supply was cut off when there was a planned outage, but there is no record of this in the fault reports—the basis of the final official report—even though the rules of conduct state that every time there’s a stoppage, both the incident and its possible causes must be recorded.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, there is no entry for a planned outage in the incident reports you provided, nor in the power supply register kept at the turbine plant, nor in the records for the transformer that controls the amount of power consumed in the engine plant.”

  “That’s strange, yes. Still, it doesn’t prove anything. They could’ve just forgotten to report it.”

  “Maybe, but these Soviets record everything. They record your name, the time you arrive, and the time you leave, the machinery you operate, and the number of parts produced on your shift, so it’s hard to believe that they’d forget to report something of this magnitude. And it wasn’t a brief stoppage. Engine production was interrupted for five hours, with Stalin here, observing everything. The official report attributes the downtime to a planned shutdown of the power plant, but that’s not true. My informants assured me that no interruptions were scheduled for that day. Naturally, Stalin was furious and demanded an explanation.”

  “Oh yes. I remember being told about that.” Hewitt clenched his teeth. “They brought the opening of the factory forward to a week before we disembarked so they could take the credit. Are you implying that the factory’s bosses made up the excuse of the outage to cover up another problem?”

  “I am. And if my theory’s right, the only explanation is that they didn’t want Stalin to know they’d been sabotaged on such a momentous day.”

  “It’s strange. These reports were provided to me directly by Sergei Loban. He should’ve told me that the outage was not planned by the management—that the official report was a cover-up. Why would he want to hide it from me?”

  “That I don’t know. Maybe you should ask him.”

  Jack smiled with satisfaction as he hid his first pay packet of three hundred dollars in the secret pocket he had fashioned in his belt. Hewitt had explained to him that he would pay him the agreed amount privately every week, without a receipt. Given Jack’s rank, he couldn’t justify paying him such a large sum. Jack was delighted with the arrangement. He decided to pay a visit to Ivan Zarko, the contact that the smuggler Konstantin had given him at the station in Leningrad, to exchange some of his dollars for rubles so he could spend them. He remembered that Zarko worked as an upravdom on Tverskaya Avenue, and he wondered whether that address was anywhere near the mansion where Elizabeth was staying. He also thought that if he was going to see her, he ought to find himself a more appropriate outfit.

  Despite the wrinkles on his face, Ivan Zarko proved to be one of those old men who have ice in their eyes and an iron hand, someone who seemed capable of impaling anyone who tried to cross him without blinking an eye. This was clear to Jack as soon as he asked for him, when under Zarko’s watchful eye, his two sons frisked him to make sure he wasn’t carrying a weapon.

  “So Konstantin sends you,” the patriarch murmured. “And what in hell does a foreigner want from a poor old man like me?”

  Jack explained that Konstantin had assured him that he could get a good price for his dollars on the black market, and that Zarko could help him.

  “I haven’t been involved in that business for years,” the old man said, staring into the distance. “If I was caught trading in currency, I’d never see my grandchildren again. So tell me, how is Konstantin?” he asked from behind a rickety desk in the hallway of the building he managed.

  Jack sensed that Zarko’s words were those of a shrewd old man dealing with a stranger.

  “Konstantin would do anything for me.”

  “Perhaps he would. But I don’t know you. Look, son, if you want some good advice, forget the black market. Tell them at the bank that you didn’t know the rules and make do with the rubles they offer you. You’ll lose money but keep your health. And health is important in such a cold place.”

  “It would be three hundred dollars a week,” said Jack.

  Zarko’s two sons looked at each other in surprise.

  “Listen to me, American. We don’t like jokers—”

  In response, Jack took off the belt where he’d hidden the money and deposited a bundle of green notes on the desk. The old man grabbed the cash and hid it under his overcoat.

  “Are you crazy? We could be arrested.”

  Jack looked from side to side to assure himself that the place was deserted. “I never joke. Especially when it comes to m
oney.”

  For the first time, the old man looked into the blue eyes of the willowy American in front of him. “Damned foreigner . . . How do I know that you’re really Konstantin’s friend and not an OGPU agent?”

  Jack stood in silence, as did Ivan Zarko’s sons. He noticed the two of them looking at each other nervously.

  “Because he gave me blat,” he replied, and without waiting for Ivan Zarko to respond, he took the piece of paper signed by Konstantin out of a pocket and left it in the same place he’d deposited the bundle of notes.

  With nine thousand rubles burning a hole in his pocket, bought at a rate of thirty per dollar, Jack took in the shop windows on Sverdlovka Avenue like a child left alone in a candy store. The Grand Way, as the locals called it, and which he had nicknamed Rich Street, was an avenue so wide that ten cars could travel along it side by side. Even so, only a few horse-drawn carriages and tramcars were on the street. As he walked, he admired the succession of hotels, churches, museums, and palaces that seemed to be competing for the title of Most Lavish Building. Despite the cold, Jack spurned the tram and climbed on foot toward the former monastery square, in search of a tailor who could make a suit for him similar to Hewitt’s. However, none of the three establishments he visited could meet his request.

  “How can you not have any fabric?” he’d asked.

  In response, the last tailor he called on shrugged and then repeated the same story that Jack had heard from the two previous tailors. “We used to receive musk ox wool and sometimes even cashmere, but for a long time we haven’t had the material to make new suits. All we do is repair old suits and sell used garments. We have astrakhan overcoats and one or two vatniks that you could wear underneath to protect yourself from the winter.”

  To Jack, it seemed inconceivable that even when he had the money, they wouldn’t give him what he wanted. “And the suits that the Soviet factory bosses wear, don’t they have them made here?”

  “They do, sir. But they provide the fabric themselves.”

  Seeing that the tailor’s own jacket had been mended, Jack cursed inwardly. After weighing his options, he finally agreed to bring the tailor some garments that he’d kept from McMillan’s trunk to alter. He took his leave and returned to the avenue, intending to buy some vodka and a couple of cakes to celebrate his first wage packet with his friends. He’d missed Walter, but in his cable, he’d assured Jack that he would join them soon.

  It wasn’t easy to find a food store. Finally, he walked into one with meat, poultry, and confectionery filling the window display, only to find a crowd of weary-looking men and women waiting in line at the cashier. He noticed that the shelves contained only a few potatoes, some pots of lard, smoked sardines, and a box of meal. The rest of the shelves looked as if they’d been empty for years. Jack went up to a storekeeper who was cleaning behind a cash register and asked him for some of the products in the window.

  “You have to go to the other till. This one’s for party members only.”

  Jack contemplated the endless line. He was reminded of his days of hunger in New York. At least in Russia, even if you had to wait your turn, you could leave the store with food. He was about to join the end of the line when the storekeeper called to him. “You won’t be able to buy the food that’s in the window.”

  Jack reddened. He hoped to God that those goods weren’t reserved for a privileged few as well. The storekeeper’s answer stunned him.

  “It’s not that we don’t want to sell them to you. It’s just that the goods in the window are made of painted cardboard. It’s only advertising, to make the store look nice.”

  Two hours later, Jack was on his way back to the American village, carrying a dozen eggs and some sugar. He’d visited at least ten food stores, and in all of them not only did he have to wait in endless lines, but their storerooms were virtually empty.

  As the tram clattered through the snow-covered landscape, he wondered what good it was earning pots of money if he had nowhere to spend it. He had no desire to live like a miser, eating black bread, wearing patched-up suits, and traveling on a tram like a sheep on its way to the slaughterhouse. He would never earn Elizabeth’s admiration like this. What was he supposed to do? Stick his earnings in a sack and show them to Hewitt’s niece to prove his worth? He shook his head and swore to himself. It was so cold, he was afraid to sneeze in case his nostrils froze. He envied the other passengers who wore warm hats. Fortunately, the tram was reaching its destination.

  In the communal kitchen, he gave the sugar and eggs to Harry Daniels’s wife so that she could prepare something sweet. “I’m afraid I couldn’t get flour,” Jack said apologetically. “I couldn’t find a single place that sold it in the whole damned city.”

  “And why didn’t you buy it here?”

  “Here? Where?”

  “Where do you think? At the American store!”

  Jack felt like someone who had spent the morning trying to pull a door open before realizing that it opened inward. Apparently, the foreign workers had their own stores where there were no lines or lack of stock. He hadn’t known. Of course, the prices were three times what they were in the Soviet stores. Mrs. Daniels added that the American store behind the bunkhouses was one of these establishments.

  “It’s expensive, but at least you can find almost everything there, not like those poor Russian peasants, who only have watery porridge to give their children,” said the woman with a sad expression.

  It was his day off, so Jack decided to find out for himself what was available in the village store. He said good-bye to Mrs. Daniels and promised her that he’d be back with the best flour in the whole Soviet Union.

  The American store proved to be a meager pantry only slightly better provisioned than the stores he’d visited that morning. He wandered between the half-empty shelves, asking himself whether Mrs. Daniels had really meant it when she said that this was the place where he could buy almost anything, until behind the counter he found a Soviet worker who greeted him halfheartedly. Without expecting much, Jack asked him for a pack of flour, but to his surprise, the worker disappeared through a door and returned within a few seconds, the goods under one arm. Seeing this outcome, he added two bottles of vodka, a pack of American cigarettes, a rack of pork ribs, and half a dozen bagels to the order. The Soviet worker disappeared again and returned with the vodka and bagels. The other goods were not available. When Jack asked him if he could order them, the man gave a smug smile.

  “Sir, I’m retiring in five years, and to be honest, even if I retired in ten, I doubt you’d see your order arrive at this store.” He explained that they sold only essentials, and that, though they had a much better selection than the stores in the city, it was becoming increasingly difficult to get hold of certain foods. “We sold the last sausage two weeks ago, when the welcome party was held. Since then, supplies have been hard to come by.”

  Jack couldn’t prevent a slight shudder. When he asked why they had been cut off, the man shook his head.

  “Let’s pray it doesn’t reach the Avtozavod.”

  “That what doesn’t?”

  “The famine, comrade. The famine.”

  As he left the store, a familiar voice stopped him.

  “Mr. Jack! Mr. Jack! Remember me?”

  Jack turned around to find a dark-skinned man wearing a sock-shaped red hat. “You’re the cashier from the press shop canteen, right?”

  “I’m glad you remember me, sir! I haven’t seen you in the canteen in a while. Do you take a lunch box to the office?”

  “No. It’s not that.” He avoided explaining that, since the one time they’d met, he had eaten in the foundry canteen. “So what’re you doing around here? Have you switched jobs?”

  “Oh no, sir! It’s just that I also work as a loader. Sometimes we deliver goods to the American store from the central warehouse, or vice versa—we take things from here to our canteen. It depends.”

  “I see! Well, it was good to see you . . . Michae
l?”

  “Miquel, sir. Miquel.”

  “That’s it, Miquel. I’m going back to the bunkhouse, before I turn into a snowman.”

  “Yes, sir, of course . . .” He was about to walk off, but seemed to change his mind. “One second, sir!” he called to Jack before he disappeared.

  “Yes?”

  “I heard you before . . . when you were ordering in the store, and well . . . from what I could make out, you seem to have money.”

  Jack was suspicious. He’d heard about professional con men, and it seemed too much of a coincidence that this man was taking an interest in his money. “I don’t think that’s any of your business,” he said, turning to go back to the bunkhouse.

  “Sir, I’m sorry if I’ve bothered you. I just wanted you to know that I might be able to get hold of that rack of ribs you wanted.”

  Jack stopped to look at the little man who was proposing what nobody in that remote place was supposed to be able to do. His smile seemed sincere. Jack pursed his lips and gave himself a moment to reflect.

  “Tell me one thing. Is that strange hat that falls over your ear some kind of symbol of the OGPU?”

  “Ha ha! The secret police?” He burst into laughter. “By Lenin’s whiskers! No, sir! This is a barretina!”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “If I had to tell you my life story out here, we’d freeze to death before the end of the first chapter.” He gestured unsubtly toward the canteen in the American village.

  “All right. We’ll have a drink and talk about those ribs. But stop calling me sir; it makes me uneasy.”

  On the third vodka, the little man moved on from small talk and began to explain how gunmen had forced him to flee his beloved Barcelona. He revealed that as a teenager, he had mixed with people with anarchistic tendencies, people with whom he fantasized about a future that was fairer for everybody. He was not yet eighteen, and every evening, when he came out of the libertarian institute he attended, he would dash off to trade union meetings or rallies to enjoy the fiery speeches on solidarity, equality, and the struggle of the working classes. At those gatherings, his heart would burn, and he would rail against the employers like the rest of the workers who surrounded him, even though his only work was helping his father sell beans from the family store on the Rambla de Catalunya. But that detail didn’t prevent him wanting to help his comrades defeat the bosses who oppressed them.