The Last Paradise

by Antonio Garrido

  Jack often ordered a special dinner from Miquel to surprise her with, and in the warmth of the embers, they spent the hours in the store, sampling the tasty food while she remembered her young days as a member of Komsomol, the Communist youth organization, where she discovered her calling for medicine, or told him about the efforts of her father, who after being widowed, had striven to make her a good Soviet.

  On one of those nights, Jack asked about her interest in shooting. “Do all you Russians shoot in your spare time?”

  “As much as you Americans eat hamburgers,” she countered mischievously. “No. But it was a popular activity among the Komsomol kids. In fact, I’m a crack shot!” she boasted.

  Jack thought he would dazzle her with tales of New York. He described the massive structures of steel and concrete that at that time of year would be glittering like giant Christmas trees, shedding their light on the busy crowds crawling down Broadway’s boulevards looking for premieres, stopping at the hot dog or donut stands, enjoying the Christmas carols and the lights, or the endless shop windows displaying festive garlands and gifts.

  Natasha sensed that Jack’s words came from an immigrant’s homesickness, not from boastful vanity. “So if you miss it so much, why don’t you go back?”

  At that moment, Jack remembered his parents, and his face darkened. He pursed his lips before sighing. “For the same reason I came here, I guess. No one leaves their home because they want to.” He avoided telling her the real reason for his flight. “But do you know what? I’d love to show you America. In the end, we have more in common than you think. Have you not heard of the Marx Brothers? You have Karl, and we have Groucho.” He looked her in the eye, as if searching for something more than an answer in them.

  “I . . . well . . . I have to go home.” She laughed without understanding the play on words, and got up to say good-bye.

  “Wait!” He took her hand. “What about my hip? You promised you’d take a look.”

  “Does it hurt now?” She kissed him lightly on the lips.

  Jack looked at Natasha’s bright face again. “Your kisses are the best medicine,” he said, before turning off the light to lose himself in her burning lips.

  In late February 1934, the success of the store in the American village and his ever closer relationship with Natasha began to make Jack doubt his need and desire to escape. For the first time in his life, he felt as if he could have everything he wished for: work that earned him enough to enjoy the luxuries he wanted; a woman he not only loved but also admired; and though it was a paradox, a feeling of security. And yet, the more he persuaded himself that there was a future for him in the Soviet Union, the greater was his longing to return to the United States. He missed the little things, like wandering down avenues packed with busy pedestrians, being able to spend a few cents at a hot dog stand, admiring a shop window crammed with goods, or attending the latest premiere from Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. Perhaps his nostalgia was irrational, but when he remembered the United States on freezing Gorky nights, he was filled with an energizing warmth.

  He missed his country. The land of freedom.

  America might not be the perfect country. In fact, the crisis brought about by a financial system of insatiable greed had ended the hopes and dreams of millions of families, including his own. But Jack still believed in the land where he was born.

  That didn’t stop him from appreciating the good things about Russia. Foremost among these, Jack recognized, was how quickly its leaders were lifting people out of poverty. After spending the year surrounded by Soviet workers, he’d learned that the revolution had transformed a medieval nation of nobles and serfs into a powerful state in which everyone, regardless of race, religion, or birth, had the right to a job, to a home, and to food. However, he also saw that the same leaders who so willingly shared out land and work among the dispossessed were fanatics who made the Soviet Union a dangerous place for anyone who dared take issue with their ideology.

  Ordinary Russians were indefatigable workers—reserved, honorable, committed, and honest people. At least, that was how he saw Natasha Lobanova, the Soviet citizen he knew best and the woman he loved . . . Yet, despite loving her deeply, sometimes he was troubled by thoughts of Elizabeth Hewitt.

  He couldn’t understand why it happened. Now and again, her image would suddenly appear in his mind like a slap in the face. It was as if for some inexplicable reason he was still attracted to her, not because of her beauty that he’d experienced for himself, but because of everything that surrounded her. He envied her position, her friendships, her upbringing; even her ridiculous manners and affected mannerisms were as seductive to him as they were impenetrable. He knew it was stupid, but despite being aware of his stupidity, he couldn’t prevent her from tormenting him.

  He hadn’t seen Elizabeth since the night he discovered McMillan’s passport. He knew she was still living with Viktor Smirnov, and though he’d suggested to Natasha that they visit them, she had refused. He still hadn’t been able to uncover why she was so against the idea, but every time he mentioned Viktor’s name, Natasha’s expression turned dark. One person he had seen again was Walter, who seemed to have regained his old jocularity since he learned that Jack was going out with the OGPU boss’s daughter.

  One night when his friend was doing a round of the village, he came into the store to suggest they all have dinner together at his house. “You have to try Sue’s cooking. You can’t imagine how much she’s learned.”

  Jack tried to make his excuses, but Natasha, who was helping Jack cash up, got in ahead of him. “Tell Sue we’d love to come.”

  When Walter left, Jack berated Natasha for accepting the invitation. “I don’t like you making decisions for me,” he said in a tone that took the young woman by surprise.

  “I was just being friendly! You’ve often complained that you miss your life in America. It’s always just the two of us, and I thought you’d like it if we all spent an evening together. And I want to chat with the woman who was your wife, now that I know it was all a sham.”

  Jack scowled as he padlocked the store entrance. He couldn’t explain to her that, though they’d processed their divorce, Sue’s presence still made him uncomfortable. “I’m sorry; it’s just that you always seem to be the one that decides whom we see. You got very worked up when I suggested meeting with Viktor Smirnov,” he said to vent his frustration. “That man could help me in the future. He’s very well connected and—”

  “No! I’ve told you what I think about him. You don’t need that man’s help. If you need anything, my father—”

  “Your father! And what would happen if your father changes his mind one day and decides to take the store away from me, or they transfer him to a different factory, or he gets annoyed over any little thing and sends me back to the ispravdom? Damn it! He doesn’t even know I’m sleeping with his daughter.” He opened the Ford’s door to take her home.

  “But don’t you see? Viktor will never see any farther than the end of his nose!”

  “How can you be so sure? It was thanks to him I was able to live in a proper home while the other Americans huddled together in pigsties. And the car I drive you back and forth in is his. You should be grateful.”

  “I should? Well, look what I’m going to do with your car!” She got out of the vehicle and slammed the door. “Enjoy it, but count me out if you want to visit him.” She walked off in the direction of the tram.

  That night, Jack could barely sleep. He didn’t like arguing with Natasha, but having to go along with her wishes without knowing why she was so angry annoyed him even more. He poured himself some vodka to calm himself down. The heat from the alcohol burned his throat but soothed him. As he served himself another glass, he wondered why women were so complicated. He had tried to understand their behavior, breaking everything down like he would with a complex mechanism, but as much as he tried to take them apart and reassemble them he never got the machine to work.

  He turned his thoug
hts to Wilbur Hewitt, who, two days earlier, when he’d managed to slip away from his escorts, had shown up at the store to ask about the passports.

  Jack had fobbed him off. He still didn’t know whether Hewitt was really to blame for the sabotage, though it didn’t make sense that he had hired Jack to investigate crimes that he had committed himself. Unless, of course, he was looking for someone on whom to lay the blame. Jack finished his vodka, put the bottle away, and slumped onto the sofa near the hearth to gaze at the little embers that floated like fiery sprites. It worried him that he’d reached such a simple conclusion that hadn’t occurred to him before. A scapegoat . . . and McMillan . . . where was he? And what connection did he have to the sabotage? He considered reexamining the documents he’d found in the trunk, but his head ached. Vodka and arguments were not a good combination. He slowly closed his eyes and let his mind drift with the anxiety of not knowing what direction his life would take.

  An insistent banging as if his head were being drilled woke him. Jack sat up and checked his watch. It showed 5:00 a.m. His temples throbbed, but the knocking persisted, unrelenting. He pulled on a dressing gown and went down the stairs as quickly as he could to prevent whoever it was from smashing down his door. He had no idea who it could be. When he opened up, he found Elizabeth Hewitt, soaked through, her makeup running and her eyes red from crying. Before he could ask her what was happening, the young woman came in, and, with no explanation, threw herself into his arms, sobbing inconsolably. Jack tried to calm her down, wrapping her in a blanket. When Elizabeth managed to speak, she told Jack that they’d arrested her uncle. “We were sleeping, and the telephone woke us up. Viktor took the call, then quickly got up. He didn’t want to alarm me, but his face gave it away. I insisted he tell me what was happening, and finally he explained. Oh, Jack! It was Sergei! He’s sent Wilbur to the ispravdom, charged with counterrevolutionary acts. I . . . Viktor wouldn’t tell me anything else. Oh God! I’m afraid something dreadful has happened to him.”

  “All right. Calm down. Why did you come here? I’m sure Viktor will be able to—”

  “Viktor threw me out.”

  “What?”

  “He told me I had to leave, that he couldn’t harbor the niece of a capitalist traitor.”

  “And he threw you out? In the middle of the night?”

  “Well, no. I left. I called him everything under the sun. I didn’t know who to turn to, so I came here. I don’t know anyone else. You have to help me, Jack! You can speak to Sergei.”

  “Me? But I just run a store. I don’t know why you think I could—”

  “Jack! Please, I’m begging you! You go out with his daughter. He’ll listen to you.”

  Jack blushed. “Are you forgetting who you’re talking about? In matters of the state, Sergei Loban wouldn’t listen to his own mother. And anyway . . . if they’ve arrested him, they have their reasons.”

  Elizabeth separated herself from Jack.

  “Why . . . why do you say that?” she stammered.

  Jack tried to calm her down, but she retreated again. “Please, relax. From what I know, Sergei’s been investigating your uncle for some time, and if he’s finally decided to charge him, it must be because he’s found proof. And . . .” Jack remembered how Wilbur Hewitt had deceived him with the McMillan business. “And there’re things you don’t know,” was all he finally said.

  “I’m begging you for your help, Jack! What am I going to do on my own?”

  “I understand, but I don’t see how I can—”

  “Please. If you don’t want to compromise yourself, at least help me find a lawyer. I don’t speak the language, and I don’t know who else to turn to.”

  “That’s not the problem. It’s simply that I—”

  “What is it, Jack? Have you forgotten me already? What is it you want? Do you want me? I’ll do whatever you ask, do you hear? Whatever you ask,” she said with determination.

  Jack was convinced that Elizabeth really meant it. He remained silent for a few seconds while he considered his options. Taking Elizabeth in would put him in a delicate situation as far as Sergei was concerned. And as for Natasha . . . Natasha knew he had been seeing Elizabeth, and she wouldn’t approve, either. But he couldn’t leave her out on the street.

  “All right. I’ll go to see Loban in the morning. You can stay in my room until you find somewhere else. I’ll make do here,” he said, gesturing at the sofa in front of the hearth.

  Elizabeth nodded, sighing with relief. Jack contemplated her in silence. She, though still beautiful, looked like a broken doll. He made her some of the valerian-and-lemon-balm tea that he took for his pain, and he showed her upstairs. Elizabeth sat on the bed and drank the infusion like an automaton. Jack took the cup from her hands and helped her lie down. Then he covered her and turned out the light. When he was leaving, he heard Elizabeth say good night.

  “Please, Jack. Get us back to America.”

  Before dawn, Jack was already waiting impatiently in the hall outside the office of the director of operations. He hadn’t slept. If they were capable of imprisoning Hewitt, no American could consider himself safe. When he saw Sergei appear, he finished his cup of coffee and swallowed his nerves. The Russian greeted him with a glimmer of surprise, opened his office door, and invited him in. While Jack sat down, the OGPU boss left a folder of reports on the desk and took off his old hat. His face seemed more serious than usual, as if he bore a heavy burden that he was unable to lift. He sat and studied Jack in silence.

  “So?” He said nothing else.

  “Thank you for seeing me without an appointment, sir. I know you’re very busy, but as I said to your secretary, it’s an urgent matter.”

  “Yes?”

  Jack cleared his throat. No doubt Sergei had guessed the reason for his visit. “In the early hours of this morning, Elizabeth Hewitt came to my house. She said that last night some thugs showed up at her uncle’s home and took him away without explanation.”

  “Right. Do you suppose those thugs were following orders?”

  “I suppose so. I’d be grateful if you could tell me who gave them those orders and what he’s accused of.”

  “I don’t mind satisfying your curiosity.” He looked up from the report that he’d taken from the folder. “I gave the order.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow. For a moment, he considered arguing with Sergei but held back. In truth, he didn’t even know what he was doing there, trying to call the head of the Avtozavod secret police to account, much less when it was about Hewitt, the man who’d tried to deceive him. Upsetting Sergei could only bring trouble, so he’d try to learn the whereabouts of the industrialist and leave the rest of the questions for Elizabeth herself. “You’ll understand my position. I in no way intend to question you, but I feel an obligation toward that family. Hewitt’s niece is desperate. She just asked me to find out about her uncle’s situation and if it’s possible to visit him. It was Hewitt who hired me, after all,” he said in an attempt to justify his actions.

  “Hewitt hired you? Ha!” Sergei stood, thumping the table. “How deluded you are! Do you really think the Soviet state would have allowed a newcomer like you to stick his nose in our business, just like that, however qualified he was? Or that Hewitt himself would have paid a stranger to play such an important role?”

  “I . . . I don’t understand,” Jack sputtered.

  “Hewitt had nothing to do with hiring you. I ordered him to do it in Moscow, when I discovered that McMillan had disappeared.”

  “Disappeared? But wasn’t he confined to a hospital in the United States?” He tried to act surprised.

  “So that’s what Hewitt told you? Look, Jack. Even though you’re an American, I have always believed you to be an honest man. Otherwise, I can assure you that I wouldn’t have let you within ten miles of my daughter. And for the same reason, I think I owe you an explanation.” He took a puff on his cigarette, as if weighing carefully what to reveal to him. He took a deep breath and contin
ued. “I started suspecting Wilbur Hewitt not long after he was assigned to this factory. I’m talking three years ago, when the construction of the Avtozavod first began, and he was chosen to oversee it. Hewitt was very enthusiastic; I won’t deny it. His team worked day and night, and in a few months they transformed a piece of wasteland into the impressive complex that is now the pride of the Soviet people. But when the first machines were commissioned, the problems started, too.” He took another puff. “At first, Hewitt blamed the incidents on the Soviet workers’ lack of skills. To solve the problem, a group of technicians traveled to Dearborn to be trained, while some American operatives were brought to the Avtozavod. However, far from improving, the problems worsened, and the sabotage started. The OGPU and Ford agreed jointly to appoint two special supervisors with the mission of uncovering the criminals. For the Soviet side, the designated man was Anatoly Orlov, and for the Americans, it was George McMillan. The two of them would work side by side, and their findings would be reported directly to me.”

  He checked that Jack was following him before continuing. “McMillan was an oddball, a bookworm who spent entire months neck-deep in accounts and reports. He was suspicious of everyone, he barely spoke to Orlov, and he kept his discoveries secret. I imagine that, at some stage, McMillan found out that Hewitt was responsible for the sabotage, and realized he was out of his depth. He must have guarded the information for a while, but when I was in Moscow, not long after your arrival in the capital, I received a call from him admitting that he’d found the evidence I was looking for.”