The Last Paradise

by Antonio Garrido

  “Mrs. Daniels, if I look well, it’s because I had this suit mended. And in the canteen, they give supervisors special treatment. I’m . . . I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

  The woman went down on her knees in front of Jack before he could stop her, bursting into tears. “In the name of God, I beg you! Think of your parents. If they were here, you would help them.”

  Hearing her mention his parents, Jack shuddered. It occurred to him that, were they still alive, he wouldn’t even be here, freezing to death, with an old lady kneeling in front of him and begging him for food. He helped the woman up and showed her to the door. He told her to wait outside. Then he went to his trunk, removed five hundred rubles, and went out into the corridor to give them to her. “Here. It’s all I can do for you.”

  “But what’re we going to do with this money?” the woman sputtered with tears in her eyes. “We don’t know—”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Daniels. Ask around. I’m afraid there is no way I can help you.”

  A minute later, Jack slumped onto his bed and closed his eyes in an attempt to block out Mrs. Daniels’s wails that he could make out in the distance. It was impossible. He pictured his mother’s face on the body of the old woman on her knees, and his heart trembled. He mumbled a curse. He’d have liked to help those poor people, but if he did, he’d ease their suffering for a day, and the next day he’d be in jail. He went to pick up the bottle of vodka from his table, beside which were the remains of the beef stew he’d had for dinner. Suddenly, he retched, vomiting on the plate and his clothes. He cleaned himself as well as he could; then he opened the bottle and began to drink.

  18

  Jack had never imagined that simply having a hot meal every day and earning good money could weigh so heavily on him. He finished washing in the communal bathroom just as Mr. Daniels came in. The man greeted him in a wisp of a voice. When he took off his vest, Jack could see more ribs in his back than he would’ve liked. He returned the greeting and left.

  On the way to his weekly meeting with Wilbur Hewitt, he tried to figure out how he could help Mr. Daniels without compromising himself, but as much as he tried, he couldn’t think of a way. Through the great iron window of the office building, he could see a timid sun competing for space in the sky with the storm clouds that seemed to always hang over the Avtozavod. He gathered the reports he’d prepared throughout the week and knocked on the industrialist’s door. It was ten o’clock on the dot, and as on other occasions, the young nurse who checked the progress of Hewitt’s arm every morning emerged from the office. Jack returned the smile that she gave him as soon as she saw him. He remembered her name was Natasha. For a moment, he felt the urge to know more about her, and he wondered for how much longer she’d be treating Hewitt.

  The industrialist’s voice suddenly made Jack jump as if he’d been caught stealing apples. Jack took out his notes and arranged them on the desk. Hewitt laid his monocle on an old copy of the New York Times and waited for Jack to fill him in on the results of his inquiries. However, Jack set aside the reports and looked Hewitt in the eye. He pondered whether he should inform him about what was happening to his compatriots. He made up his mind.

  “Mr. Hewitt, if I may, before we discuss the investigation, I’d like to bring a matter that concerns all of us to your attention.”

  “All of us? Gosh! Well, let’s have it, then.” He stubbed out his cigarette and leaned over the table to listen.

  “It’s about the food rations. I don’t know if you’re aware, but they’re dwindling fast, and the American village store is also short on supplies.”

  “No, I didn’t know. I always have lunch here, in the office, and, frankly, the offering seems just as plentiful and as awful as it’s always been. But if that’s the problem, I’ll see if I can get them to provide you with a couple more tickets, and—”

  “Pardon me, Mr. Hewitt. Perhaps I haven’t explained myself well. The problem’s not mine; like I say, it’s something that’s affecting all the workers.”

  “Oh! In that case, the best thing to do is lodge a complaint. I’ll give you the name of the proper official. These matters are beyond my remit.”

  “Excuse me if I’m speaking out of turn, sir, but I don’t think seeing fellow Americans growing sick from hunger is beyond your remit.”

  Hewitt’s expression of disbelief was like that of a sergeant being insulted by a new recruit. He coughed as if he’d been dealt a punch, and stood over the desk. “Let’s get one thing straight, Jack. This is how it works: we don’t sniff the Russians’ butts, and they don’t sniff ours. I don’t know why they’re cutting rations, but if they are, I can assure you they’ll have their reasons. Anyway, it sounds like the cuts are affecting everyone the same, and I doubt the Soviets enjoy seeing their own compatriots going without, so I don’t think there’s much I can do about it.”

  “So, that’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “But—”

  With a quick swat, Hewitt sent Jack’s stack of reports flying. “Listen to me, kid, and listen hard, because you only have two choices!” he said, waving his forefinger in front of Jack’s nose. “If you like our arrangement, carry on working with your mouth shut, taking home a salary that most people can only dream of. If you don’t like it, take your reports, leave through that door, and then experience hardship like the rest of your workmates.”

  Jack fell silent, seeing Hewitt’s flushed face. He’d never seen him like this. He swallowed and carefully reorganized his files. “I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped the mark.”

  “You darn well have overstepped it!”

  “I understand, sir. If you want, I can still fill you in on my latest discoveries,” he said quietly.

  Hewitt pursed his lips while he straightened his vest with his good arm. He looked at Jack as if judging him, before slumping back into his armchair. “OK, kid. Tell me one thing. Do your conclusions this week shed any light on this business?”

  “I believe they do.”

  “Then let’s take a look, and I hope they do, because this conversation has delayed me, and in ten minutes, I have to report to Sergei.” He started gathering up the notes that Jack had brought him.

  “I hope it goes well, sir.”

  “You hope it goes well, kid? Well, you’d better, because today it’s going to be you who informs Sergei of your progress.”

  Though he was going to see him with Hewitt, Jack couldn’t avoid feeling the same shudder he’d felt running down his spine the first time he’d walked into Sergei Loban’s office. As he sat in one of the red leather armchairs, he breathed in the smoky, damp, wood-scented atmosphere of an office that didn’t appear to have been aired in years. Unlike on his previous visit, the curtains were drawn. A bulb, its filament as dull as Sergei’s eyes, lit the room weakly. The rest of the paraphernalia—a typewriter with two sunken keys, a black Bakelite telephone, and a pair of metal filing cabinets—took on a sinister appearance in the half-light. Once they’d sat down, Sergei slumped into his own armchair and exhaled like an old horse tired of pulling a heavy cart. Behind him, the ubiquitous portraits of Lenin and Stalin kept a watchful eye on the room. The Soviet put a cigarette in his mouth and offered one to Hewitt. He didn’t so much as look at Jack.

  Hewitt inhaled as if he really needed it. Then he took out the yellow folder containing Jack’s notes and proceeded to describe their contents in detail. When he finished, he took another puff and waited for Sergei’s approval.

  “An excellent job. Except all you have given me are figures. What I need are the culprits,” Sergei murmured.

  Hewitt looked at Jack, prodding him to give the Russian an explanation. Jack took the notes and went over them.

  “Sir, the conclusions I’ve reached suggest that there’s a high percentage of accidents caused by errors, and—”

  “I’m not interested in accidents.”

  “All right.” Jack cleared his throat. “As for the cases of sabotage, we need to separ
ate two types of action with completely different objectives and methods. On the one hand, we have minor faults: screws coming loose, machines not working properly, or materials disappearing. If they didn’t occur so frequently, we could put them down to human error. This kind of sabotage tends to cause small amounts of damage and is difficult to prevent. Like I say, the perpetrators are opportunistic, disgruntled workers who—”

  “In the Soviet Union, there are no disgruntled workers!” Sergei broke in again.

  Jack frowned. For a moment, he considered arguing with him, but he knew that following that path would only take him down a blind alley. “As for the second type . . .” He cleared his throat again while he rearranged his notes. “The second type is totally different and involves trained workers who plan their actions meticulously to cause maximum damage.” He handed Sergei a file. “Look: batches of bearings manufactured out of tolerance, the devastating effects of which wouldn’t be discovered until thousands of engines blew.” He handed him another. “Metallic impurities welded into the steel molds during the stamping process, rendering them useless.” He passed him a third file. “Or damage to manufacturing components, for which, curiously, there are no spares in the warehouses.”

  “Interesting . . .” Sergei took some battered spectacles from his drawer. Putting them on, he read the reports closely. “And the culprits?”

  “That’s the problem. Like I said, these people know what they’re doing. The sabotage doesn’t cause immediate damage, which makes it more difficult to identify the perpetrator.”

  “So we’re talking about highly trained operatives?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “Well. In that case—”

  He didn’t manage to finish his sentence, because the door to his office was flung open and a man wearing a tight brown army jacket burst in without even glancing at Hewitt and Jack. “Sergei! I need a damned mechanic to fix the Buick once and for all,” he blurted out.

  Sergei snorted as if the person who’d just interrupted him were his rebellious teenage son. However, it was Viktor Smirnov, the finance commissar whom Jack had met at Elizabeth’s birthday party. “I’ve told you a thousand times to knock before you come in!” bellowed the director of operations.

  Viktor gave a start but didn’t apologize. With a self-satisfied look at the Americans, he left, slamming the door behind him.

  “By Lenin’s whiskers! I’m sick of inept bureaucrats. Let’s see . . . Where were we? Oh yes! Highly trained operatives. Good. Well, let’s leave it here. Thank you, both. Jack, you’ve been a great help.” He held out a hand to congratulate him.

  When they left the office, Jack and Hewitt found Viktor Smirnov waiting for Sergei, pacing the hall like a caged cat. Jack knew he was about to be indiscreet, but he couldn’t help himself. “Would your Buick be the 1928 Master Six Roadster?” he asked Viktor.

  Hearing him, the official stopped dead. “That’s right, but how did you—?”

  “Six-cylinder engine, forty-eight horsepower, convertible . . . I couldn’t help admiring it when I saw it parked outside.”

  “You know cars?” Viktor’s eyes gleamed.

  “It’s my job. I worked on that very model for a while in the United States. A beautiful vehicle, but as delicate as a damsel, Mr. . . .” He pretended he couldn’t remember his name.

  “Smirnov. Viktor Smirnov. Have we met?” He clearly hadn’t paid much attention to Jack at the Hotel Metropol.

  “No . . . I don’t think so. Anyway, enjoy your car before it falls to pieces.”

  “What a coincidence! The cylinder head’s gone on mine. Would you know how to fix it?”

  Jack thought of Elizabeth before answering. “Of course. I could strip that Buick down blindfolded.”

  Back at his office, Hewitt, who had remained silent all the way there, slammed the door and threw Jack’s reports into the wastepaper basket.

  “What were you thinking? All Sergei needed was any excuse to blame the American workers, and you gave it to him on a platter. Why the hell did you tell him the sabotage was done by experienced operatives? I warned you not to divulge anything like that.”

  Jack stammered. He’d thought Hewitt would congratulate him on his investigation, but instead, he was yelling at him. “I . . . I didn’t accuse anybody,” he said in his defense.

  “Don’t you see? The Soviets will never admit that there are traitors in their ranks. Now Sergei will take your report, present it to his superiors, and blame the Americans for the sabotage.” Hewitt collapsed into his chair. He pulled a bottle of vodka from a drawer and took a long draft. Then he offered the bottle to Jack. The young man copied him. “Sergei’s a sly old dog,” Hewitt went on. “He needs to show that he’s got the factory under control, and he knows that the best way to do that is to divert attention from the real problem.”

  “But if he knows what the problem is, why doesn’t he deal with it?”

  “Because he can’t. The saboteurs are spread throughout his own workforce: people tired of being exploited, peasants taken away from their land and forced to work at the Avtozavod, people who are just goddamned hungry. When the sabotage started, they tried to contain it by repressing the workers, but it only made matters worse. Now Sergei will have an excuse to start arresting Americans.”

  Jack didn’t buy Hewitt’s argument. The industrialist was blaming discontented Soviet peasants for the sabotage, but his findings showed that the perpetrators had technical expertise that the Soviets undoubtedly lacked. When he said as much, Hewitt became furious.

  “Well, if you don’t want to see your fellow countrymen dropping like flies, you’ll have to prove yourself wrong. Oh! And one other thing. Your salary. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but the Soviets are checking my accounts, and it’s difficult to justify cash payments. I’m not saying I’m going to withdraw your wages . . . but you’ll get them when you’ve earned them.”

  19

  The young man in the red hat made sure nobody saw him unloading the last sack he’d carted to the American store. “I don’t know why you’re fixing his toy for him,” Miquel muttered when he heard that Jack had agreed to repair Smirnov’s Buick. “That Smirnov’s a disgrace, an arrogant snake. They say that Stalin himself protects him. I don’t know whether it’s true, but it’s obvious he’s very well connected within the party. Just look at him strutting around like a peacock all day in his fancy car and his immaculate uniform, as if he owned the place.”

  Jack ignored the chatter. All he cared about was the chance to get closer to Elizabeth. “Well, the best thing you can do with a good-for-nothing is keep him entertained,” he said, hiding the rack of ribs in the tool cart he was going to use to shift the meat. “Same as usual?”

  “Da. Same.”

  Jack paid Miquel the agreed amount and said good-bye. Then he pushed the cart to the woodshed, where Harry Daniels’s elder son was waiting for him. Jack had persuaded him to help sell the goods in the American village in exchange for some of the food.

  After Hewitt told him about the difficulties paying his wages, Jack had decided that dealing in contraband was the best way to bridge the gap. Profiting from people’s hunger might not be viewed favorably, especially by Walter, but in his mind, everyone was a winner: he provided an essential service, made a reasonable profit, and his fellow Americans received a little pork belly to make up for the alarming decline in food rations. He guessed that sooner or later Hewitt would resume paying him, but in the meantime, it would do no harm to cover his back. Jack had planned the operation to avoid any slipups that might alert the Soviets. Since the guards were stationed at the entrance on the fenced perimeter, he’d arranged for payment to be made in the dormitories, while the food would be dispensed in the courtyard latrines, through a cavity made in the sewer wall where neither the buyer nor the seller could see each other’s face.

  He and Jim finished butchering the pig and buried the cuts in the snow.

  “You know what to do. Take the money first, and
sell the portions one by one,” Jack reminded him.

  “The Robertsons haven’t managed to raise the money. What should I do about their order?” said Jim. He was nineteen years old but thought like a much older man.

  “How’s their daughter? Has she recovered?”

  “Nah. She can’t shake off the pneumonia.”

  “Then give them the girl’s share, and sell the rest to the Phillipses.” Jack usually gave priority to workers with families. “And tell him, if she doesn’t improve, to come and see me. I know a nurse; I could see if she would help.”

  Jim followed Jack’s instructions to the letter, word got around, and for the next few days Jack supplied the village with fresh and cured meat. Unfortunately, news spread beyond the confines of the American village, and before long, the Soviets stepped up security, searching residents for suspicious goods.

  Though he still had not received his wages from Hewitt, Jack decided not to continue dealing in contraband goods. However, when he told Jim he was shutting down the business, the youngster reacted as if he were taking away his last possession.

  “You can’t do this! Look at us.” He showed Jack his undernourished arms. “I need those ribs. My parents need them.”

  Jack stood his ground. It was true that the American village was growing hungrier by the minute, but the Soviet workers were suffering the same hardships without complaining. At any rate, he couldn’t even remember why he had decided to start smuggling food in when he already had a privileged position. “You’d do the same if you were me,” he said in his defense.

  “Sure. And if you were in my shoes, what would you do?” the young man shot back. His face was red with desperation.

  Jack looked at him. He really had lost weight, as had the others in his family, whereas Jack had gone up a hole in his belt. He would have liked to help the youngster, but he didn’t know how to do so without putting himself in danger. Miquel wouldn’t do business with anyone but him. He pondered for a moment. He cursed himself and spat out the piece of smoked meat he was chewing. “All right. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. I’ll keep the business going with the same terms, but you’ll be in charge. If for whatever reason we get busted, you’ll take the heat. It’s the best I can do.”