“It’s your wound I have to dress, not the sheet,” she said, gently moving it away.
Reluctantly, Jack allowed her to examine him. The nurse removed the iodine dressing and checked the rim of the wound, which was still raw. “It doesn’t look good. Don’t blush. I mean the wound.” She smiled and soaked a fresh dressing in antiseptic.
Jack didn’t see the funny side. “It feels as if something’s burning me,” he explained.
“It’s because of the fragment that’s still inside you. We’ll get it out tomorrow,” she said while she cleaned the burn with a piece of cotton.
“Tomorrow? And why not today?”
“The surgeons are busy with other patients with more serious conditions than yours. You were lucky. Were it not for the steel trim on your apron, I’d be examining your lungs right now without needing an X-ray.” She gestured at the garment full of holes that lay on a chair alongside what remained of his clothes.
“Sure. Really lucky . . . Do you know when I’ll be able to speak to the doctor in charge?”
“Of course.” She smiled and continued to carefully clean the wound.
Jack pulled up his pajamas, stopping Natasha from finishing her work. “I don’t have time to mess around. Please, call your boss and let him know that I need to get out of here as soon as possible.”
“Mr. Beilis, no patient’s here for the fun of it. You’ll have your operation when it’s your turn.” She smiled at him again, wished him well, got up, and left.
When she’d gone, Jack turned to his neighbor, an elderly Caucasian with two bandaged stumps instead of feet. “What happened to you, friend?” he asked.
“The damned cold froze my feet to the bones. And you, why are you here?”
Jack’s only response was to lower his pajama bottoms to show the man his wound.
“Bah! That’s nothing, boy. In two weeks you’ll be galloping around like a colt again.”
“Problem is, I don’t have two weeks. Do you know who’s in charge of this nuthouse?”
“Sure! Everyone knows.”
“And what do I need to do to speak to him?”
“Nothing much, boy. Wait until your next dressing.”
“Wait? For whom?”
The mutilated old man gave him a knowing smile before answering. “For Natasha Lobanova, the young woman who just saw to you. She’s the head surgeon of the Avtozavod hospital. And the best person I’ve ever met.”
Jack discovered that Natasha Lobanova was like her father, Sergei Loban, in her commitment to the Soviet regime. Both pursued equality, though by different means. In everything else, they seemed to be from two different worlds. In Jack’s mind, Sergei was a political fanatic who would lose an arm if it meant his ideology would prevail, just as he would tear both arms from any poor fool who got in his way. Natasha’s greatest interest, however, appeared to be in eliciting a smile from every patient she saw. Sergei took meticulous care of appearances, from his impeccable uniform to his scrupulously trimmed beard. Natasha, on the other hand, paid little attention to the way she looked, but her clear skin, along with the innocence in her eyes, gave her an allure unlike any other woman Jack had seen. Sergei was rigidity; she was sweetness. He was fear; she was heaven.
When he had the chance, Jack apologized for mistaking her for a nurse, and admitted to Natasha that he knew her father. However, far from welcoming his friendliness, she responded with suspicion.
“I know. He asked me to take special care of you,” she replied curtly.
Jack noticed her expression turning hard. “Why the face?” he asked.
“It’s nothing. I just don’t like favoritism.” She tightened the bandage with more force than usual. Jack grunted with pain.
“How’s the wound healing?” he said, trying to change the subject.
“As it should. It’s a deep burn. After extracting the fragment, we’ll see if any nerves have been affected. Is there still a lot of pain?” She bent over to examine the wound.
“All the time. Except . . .”
“Yes?” Natasha gave him a skeptical look.
“Except when I see you.” Instantly, Jack blushed at the inanity of his comment.
Natasha raised an eyebrow and stood. “Right. In that case, I’ll see if I can find you a photo,” she said seriously, then picked up his medical record. “A nurse will come later to wash and prep you for the operation. However, I regret to inform you that removing that fragment’s going to hurt.”
Natasha had been right. It appeared that the procaine injected near his hip before the operation had not done its job fully, and the moment the pincers began rummaging in his flesh, he twisted in agony. When she had finally extracted the fragment, the young woman apologized. “I’m sorry to have taken longer than expected. I’d administered enough anesthetic for a short procedure, but the metal was in contact with a crural nerve branch, and I didn’t want to leave you lame.”
“The way that hurt, I’d say you almost did,” said Jack while a nurse dried the sweat from his brow.
“Well, I expect everything will be fine, but it’s too soon to say. Tomorrow, when the swelling’s gone down, we’ll check your mobility and pain levels. Now you must rest.”
“But rather than staying here, couldn’t I recover at my house?”
“You have a house?” Natasha appeared surprised.
“Is that strange?”
“No . . . well, truthfully, yes. You don’t wear a ring, and no women have visited you, so I assumed you were single.”
“Is that what you look at when you examine me?” Jack was surprised that Natasha had any interest in his private life.
“Of course not!” She reddened.
“Well, it’s true. I’m single.” For a moment he forgot about his false marriage.
“So how is it possible that you’ve been given a house?” She adjusted her bun—a rebellious lock of hair had fallen onto her face. “Single people aren’t permitted to have houses in the Soviet Union.”
“Let’s just say things are going well for me.” Jack decided against explaining that the house had a lot to do with Viktor Smirnov.
“Well, you’re very lucky. And luck isn’t something that’s overly plentiful in the Avtozavod.” She gestured at the patients who packed the ward. “Anyway, I’ll try to get you better as soon as possible. There’re plenty of others who need this bed.” Her expression hardened again. “Oh! And please, don’t complain too much when the anesthetic wears off. Some folks here are really sick.”
During his convalescence, Jack observed that not only did those he thought wanted him dead seem uninterested in his health, but Elizabeth hadn’t deigned to call on him, and aside from Joe Brown and Walter, the only visitor he’d received since his admission had been Wilbur Hewitt, who had only come to the Avtozavod to alert him to the problems blighting the factory.
“We’re all anxious,” the industrialist admitted in the rehabilitation room where he’d found Jack performing a series of exercises on crutches. “Who’d have imagined there’d be a strike that brought the factory to a standstill? Apparently, Stalin’s furious, which means that heads are going to roll soon. And you can bet that the first ones to roll will be American.”
Jack was surprised. He took a rest from the walking that Natasha had prescribed and sat on a battered armchair that an elderly man had just vacated. “A strike . . . and the factory’s been shut down?”
“Completely paralyzed. The pickets have stopped the workers from going in. They’ve set fire to cars and cut off the power supply. The Avtozavod looks like a war zone.”
“No one’s said anything about it in here.”
“The workers aren’t allowed to talk to outsiders about what’s happening, on pain of being sent to a labor camp, and you’re a foreigner.” There was a worried silence for a moment. “The discontent goes back a long time, but the demonstrations began three days ago. From what I’ve been able to find out, the OGPU have informed Stalin, and he’s sending in the army.�
��
“And what do you plan to do?” Jack noticed that Wilbur Hewitt was sweating.
“I don’t know yet. I’ve sent a wire to Dearborn requesting instructions. I can’t leave the factory because our contract with the Soviet government has a penalty clause if we interrupt our technical support. I’m guessing it’s what Sergei hopes to do: claim a breach of contract and cancel the payments owed. But I’m afraid for my niece. I’ve suggested she accept Viktor Smirnov’s offer to stay in his dacha until the hostilities are resolved.”
The news made him uneasy. “And is there anything I can do to help?”
“Get back on your feet as soon as possible, kid. It’s rebellion in the American village. Many are trying to organize themselves to return to the United States, but it’s rumored that the Soviets aren’t going to give them their passports back. That’s why I thought you . . . Well, people say you have contacts.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come on, Jack! You can trust me. Do you, or don’t you?”
Jack could see Hewitt was desperate. “I don’t know. I might be able to speak to someone who knows someone . . . but it’s only a might.”
“Good. That’s what I wanted to hear. When do you think you’ll be able to walk?”
“I don’t know for certain. The doctor says she’ll take the crutches away in a couple of days, but I’m not so sure.”
“The doctor?”
“Yes. Natasha Lobanova. The one—”
“Natasha? Well, I’ll be damned! You’ve fallen into good hands! Nothing like that ogre of her father. All right. Get well as quickly as possible. I need you out there, and I’m prepared to pay whatever’s necessary.”
“What exactly are you planning to do?”
At that moment, Wilbur noticed a patient nearby who seemed to be paying more attention than was warranted. “It’s too dangerous to say more now, but when you get out of the hospital, come and see me at home.”
“Come on, Mr. Hewitt! What’s going on? Don’t you think what happened to me was suspicious?”
“You mean the accident?”
“Ha! That’s one way of putting it. For God’s sake, they tried to kill me! That guy Anatoly Orlov waited until I was under the conveyor and then started it up.”
“I’m sorry, Jack. I didn’t know the details. Sergei assured me it was an accident. He even showed me the statements of witnesses who said it was you who made the conveyor tip over when you wrecked the gearing with a metal bar.”
“But don’t you see? Sergei was the one who planned it all. I bet he’s put me in here to keep me quiet while he brings charges of sabotage against me.”
“That Soviet bastard suspects me. That’s why you have to get out as soon as possible. Even so, you need not worry about that Orlov anymore. Apparently, he worked for Sergei, taking care of shady business for him. He was his right-hand man.”
“Worked? He doesn’t anymore?”
“I don’t think he’s up to the job.”
“Why? What happened?”
“He showed up dead this morning in the press shop, with his head caved in. They say it was an accident. Like yours.”
24
Though Jack had never set foot in a Siberian prison, he imagined their disciplinary regime was no worse than the one they imposed in the hospital each morning.
Though they’d all been shaved on admission, every day a nurse inspected the patients’ heads for lice, to prevent the spread of typhus. The ones who could walk were then escorted to the showers, and the lame patients like Jack were washed by two tough male nurses, who manhandled them like they were sacks of potatoes. Dressings were changed daily, but although they assured Jack they used an autoclave to disinfect them, he didn’t believe them.
The lack of resources contrasted with the sophistication of the machinery used at the Avtozavod. To build automobiles, the Soviets had imported expensive machines and foundries, but feeding and taking care of their workers seemed to be a secondary consideration. In Jack’s mind, that was the one true cause of the strike that had brought the Avtozavod to a standstill, a strike for which the authorities needed people to blame. That was why he needed to get out of the hospital as soon as possible. For a moment, he thought about escaping, but aside from his limp, there were the ward guards, who, as another patient told him, were OGPU. His only choice was to press Natasha Lobanova to discharge him.
He decided to seize his chance to try to persuade her on her night rounds. Sergei’s daughter was on duty that evening, and she seemed keen to chat. However, as much as Jack tried, she was immune to his pleas.
While she examined the wound’s scarring, Natasha asked Jack about America. Accustomed to enthralling his Soviet colleagues with wondrous stories, he launched into a description of his country with the cunning of a fox stalking a hen. “You have to see it! In the cities, the buildings soar into the sky, lighting it up with neon; the streets are filled with cars, and on the sidewalks, people go from store to store, where the shelves are packed with anything you could wish for: food, drink, cigarettes, clothes, tools, gramophones. Anything you can dream of, you can buy there.”
“But what if you don’t have money?”
“Then you have to earn it. You need money to buy things.”
“Answer me one question. Do those shelves stock dignity?” She lifted the dressing and applied an ointment to the wound. Jack gave a start when he felt the permanganate sting the burn.
“Pardon me?”
“I was asking if they sell dignity in those marvelous department stores of yours.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at, but anyhow, what good’s dignity if you can’t have a decent meal?” He pointed at the plate on which they’d served him a ladleful of sascha, or the revolting oat pap, as he preferred to call it.
“It allows you to look people in the eye.” She gave him a look as pure as water.
Jack cleared his throat. He could see the conversation heading onto rocky ground. “Perhaps, Natasha, you find it difficult to imagine what it’s like for the millions of starving people who, instead of a dignified look, would prefer to have a nice plate of lentils in front of them.”
“Why would I find it difficult to imagine?” Natasha pulled out a couple of hairpins, and her bun spilled onto her shoulders in a blond waterfall. Jack was struck by her confidence.
“You tell me. A young, good-looking surgeon, with a position of responsibility in the Avtozavod, from a family that no doubt provided you with an education and all the privileges that come with it. You don’t seem like the kind of person who could put herself in the shoes of these miserable tramps who can’t even choose what they eat.”
“Anything else while you’re at it?” Natasha leaned back in her chair, striking a relaxed pose that Jack had never seen before. When she crossed her legs, he let his gaze linger on them for long enough to lose the thread of the conversation. He stammered when he tried to take it up again. He was disconcerted by this young woman arguing with him on such fundamental issues. After a few more seconds, he remembered the question.
“Well, maybe the fact that your station means you can have any luxury: you can live in a nice dacha, wear fashionable clothes, or enjoy a good roast with white bread. At least that’s what much of your ruling class does.”
“Oh, really? You must be better informed than I am. Our leaders are honest people who—”
“Like Viktor Smirnov? Perhaps you know him . . . ,” he cut in.
Hearing Viktor’s name, Natasha’s tone hardened. “Viktor and I have very different ways of seeing life.”
“So you know him. How do you know him, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I do mind, but so I don’t seem rude, I’ll answer simply by saying that I’m not impressed by silk suits or sports cars.” A faint smile appeared on her face. “But let’s talk about you.” She paused. “If you’re a visitor to Wilbur Hewitt’s office, you must be one of those engineers earning their weigh
t in gold.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” Jack showed a touch of self-importance. “After all, you Soviets need our help, and we’re offering it.”
“How? By fleecing a country that’s trying to lift itself out of generations of grinding poverty?”
“Do you expect us to cross the ocean for a change of clothes and a bowl of soup?”
“Maybe . . . Some people have. Fellow countrymen of yours who’ve settled here to help build a fairer world. For a moment, when you poured scorn on me for my training and profession, I thought you might be one of those people. But by the sound of it, you enjoy all the privileges you’re accusing me of having. And looking at you, you don’t appear to be going hungry. Yet, a moment ago, you spoke to me as if I were a deluded rich person and you were an indignant revolutionary.”
Jack fell silent. Briefly, he thought about confessing his true situation to her, but he stopped himself. Though he sensed he could trust her, all he knew about her was that she was Sergei Loban’s daughter. “Look, Natasha.” He moved as close to her as his position in the bed would allow. “You can’t begin to understand what people like me have been through, let alone criticize us. I promise you I’ve earned the right to enjoy every last ruble your government pays me.” He lifted his pajamas to show her the burn.
“Perhaps. But I get the impression that rubles won’t solve the problems that you attract.”
“What do you mean?” Jack thought Natasha was referring to the attempt on his life.
“That you think money will solve all our troubles.”
“I don’t think it; I know it.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because there was a time when I had a comfortable life, and I can promise you that I was the happiest man on earth.” He clenched his fists. Natasha noticed it. “You can’t imagine what it means to have everything taken from you, for no reason, with no right to complain, no compensation. To have everything you’ve fought for—everything you’ve achieved through hard work—disappear overnight.” He was beginning to lose control of his emotions.
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