“And now he’s handed it to you.”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?”
Sergei Loban’s only response was to open a drawer and take out a red folder, which he dropped onto the desk. Jack picked it up and opened it. Inside, he found a clipping from the Pravda newspaper, dated January 6, 1933, the very date when Wilbur Hewitt offered Jack the role of supervisor. He read the headline in bold:
UNIDENTIFIED MAN COMMITS SUICIDE BY THROWING HIMSELF INTO MOSKVA RIVER
And under the text appeared a photograph of a body, the face identical to the one Jack had seen on George McMillan’s passport.
32
When Jack confessed the outcome of his meeting to Elizabeth, the young woman retreated until she bumped into an armchair into which she slumped like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Jack hesitated before kneeling to take her hands in his and console her. When he lifted her chin, he could see barely a wisp of the beauty that had captivated him in her reddened eyes.
He made tea for both of them. While he heated the water, he felt sympathy for her but also felt sorry for himself. Elizabeth was clearly forlorn, but Wilbur Hewitt had left Jack in the lurch, too. He waited for the young woman to take a couple of sips before telling her that Sergei had authorized a visit to see her uncle. Elizabeth seemed to come back to life. “I don’t believe him. I don’t believe that bunch of lying Soviets. Where are they keeping him?”
“He told me they’ve taken him to the ispravdom. Don’t worry. They took me there, too, and it’s a safe place,” he lied to ease her worry. “Wrap up warm. It’s out of town.”
As he drove in the direction of the labor camp, Jack reflected on the macabre plot that Wilbur Hewitt had devised, and on the attempt in the factory with which, according to Sergei, the American executive had tried to murder him. His accompanying Elizabeth at that moment was less to do with kindness than out of a desire to confront the industrialist face-to-face. He accelerated hard, and the Ford lurched forward on the icy road before going into the final bend before they reached the sinister barbed-wire fencing that surrounded the ispravdom.
When they showed him Sergei’s letter of authorization, the guard let them through and led them to a small, bare room, with no furniture other than a metal table screwed to the floor, and four chairs arranged around it. While they waited, some gut-wrenching screams made Elizabeth jump.
Ten minutes later, a bolt was drawn across, and a guard emerged through the door at the other end of the room. He was followed by a wreck of a man dragging a leg. Seeing that it was Hewitt, Elizabeth ran to help him, but the guard yelled at her to keep her distance.
“What’s he saying?” she asked Jack.
“He’s telling us to sit down and remain seated. Do what he says.”
“You have five minutes,” the guard said in English, and he positioned himself beside the table.
Elizabeth looked at her uncle with wide eyes, as if she were looking at a stranger. “Uncle Wilbur? Oh God! What have these savages done to you?”
Wilbur Hewitt pressed his lips together and raised his head, trying to preserve some trace of dignity. He glanced sidelong at the guard. “Don’t worry. These Soviet sons of bitches only—”
“Silence!” the guard shouted in English. His voice made him as threatening as someone aiming a pistol at them.
Hewitt looked at the guard again and spat on the ground. “Sorry . . . What I meant to say was, these kind hosts are treating me excellently,” he blurted out with irony. “Listen carefully. I’ve asked to speak to the ambassador, with no success. They say the telephones don’t work, but they’ve allowed me to give this letter to you. You have to get it to him.” He took a crumpled handwritten note from one of his pockets and handed it to Jack.
Jack took it and passed it to Elizabeth.
“Uncle Wilbur, Jack says they’re accusing you of conspiracy, sabotage, embezzlement . . .”
“Yes, yes . . . and of killing my fellow Americans. Nothing would make these bastards happier,” he said while the guard was speaking to a comrade. “I’m innocent! I swear to you that—”
“Mr. Hewitt,” Jack cut in, “Sergei Loban says he has proof.”
“Sergei’s a compulsive liar who could have made anything up. Look, son—”
“I’m not your son, sir,” Jack interrupted again. Elizabeth looked at him in surprise.
“Silence!” the guard yelled, having turned his attention back to them. “If prisoner continue to slander our leaders, visit will be canceled.”
Despite Jack’s repulsion at Hewitt’s hypocrisy, he stood up to show the guard the order issued by Sergei authorizing a private conversation. The guard looked at him out of the corner of his eye as he read it.
“And I have order to oversee conversation,” he replied, unimpressed.
Jack, after a moment’s hesitation, nodded and returned to his seat.
“All right, Mr. Hewitt. It seems we can’t stop this man from interrupting us every time he hears us criticize his superiors. However . . .”
“Yes?” the industrialist asked.
“However, there’s no reason why we can’t continue this conversation in German,” Jack said in that language. “I doubt the guard will understand it. Don’t waste any time, just answer my questions.”
“Of course,” Hewitt replied, also in German.
“Good. Why did you lie to me?”
“Me? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t—”
“Mr. Hewitt, I don’t have time to play games. Why did you tell me that McMillan had stayed in the United States?”
“Listen, boy. That has nothing to do with—”
“Niet!” yelled the guard. “Conversation is finished!”
“Not so fast!” Jack said, standing up. “The commissar himself, Comrade Sergei Loban, has stated that we can speak for ten minutes, ten, without specifying what language we communicate in, and you have made me waste two of those minutes. If you think you can prove that we’re criticizing the regime during our conversation, then go ahead, interrupt it. But if you don’t know German, I advise you to refrain or find someone who does understand it. Anything other than contravene an order from the head of the OGPU.” Jack prayed that the Soviet custom of following any order received from a superior would work in his favor.
The guard reddened. Jack, seeing him hesitate, saved him the effort.
“Thank you,” he said. “I won’t mention to Comrade Loban that we wasted those two minutes.” He quickly sat down again.
“Please, Jack! Can you explain to me why you’re attacking my uncle?” asked Elizabeth.
“Mr. Hewitt, that guard’s making a telephone call. In very little time, a Russian who understands German will appear through that door, and our chance will be gone, so listen: I know that McMillan entered the Soviet Union on December 26, 1932, one week before the SS Cliffwood arrived in Helsinki. Why did you lie to me?”
Hewitt bowed his head.
“Hewitt!” Jack insisted.
“It wasn’t me, damn it! It was Sergei’s idea.” He paused, blowing out. “McMillan traveled on the SS Leviathan a week early to reach Russia before us. He had work to do in Moscow, but mysteriously vanished. When he didn’t show up, Sergei suggested I hire you to replace him.”
“But why did you deceive me? Why did you hide McMillan’s disappearance from me?”
“That was Sergei’s doing, too. That Russian’s a wily old fox. He said to me that if I told you the truth, if I mentioned McMillan’s mysterious disappearance, it would scare you off. He would never have allowed a stranger to prowl around his factory, and I had my hands tied.” He fell silent for a moment. “Look . . . Do you remember when I introduced Sergei to you as a liaison officer on board the SS Cliffwood? Well, I lied. Sergei was never an official there to escort me. That was his cover during his journey to the United States; in reality, he belonged to the OGPU. He forced me to fool you for the same reason. So you’d take the job. That�
��s why I told you at the Metropol that they’d just appointed him as head of the Avtozavod security.”
This time it was Jack who was silent. For a moment he began to doubt who it was that was deceiving him. “Damn it! You lied to me! You haven’t stopped lying to me since I met you!”
“For God’s sake, Jack! What choice did I have? Everyone here does what the Soviets tell them to do. You, me, that guard, everyone! You have to believe me, Jack. You have to!”
Jack looked him in the eyes. The old industrialist was trembling, unable to hold his gaze. “Sure . . . And according to you, why do you think Sergei wanted to hire me?”
“How do I know? Sergei’s paranoid. He sees enemies everywhere. In me, in the Americans, in the counterrevolutionaries . . . He might’ve thought I was responsible for the sabotage, or he might not, who knows? Perhaps he was looking for a replacement until McMillan appeared. Damn McMillan! I don’t know what in hell’s name could’ve happened to him.”
“Well, it seems strange that you don’t know, because Sergei assures me it was you who killed him.”
“What? McMillan’s dead?” he stammered.
“Come on, Hewitt. Don’t pretend to be surprised.”
“McMillan, dead . . . My God!” His monocle fell onto his chest.
“Enough! Nothing you say makes sense, much less the excuse that Sergei forced you to hire me. With McMillan dead, why would he want a replacement?”
“My God. McMillan dead . . . Now it makes sense.”
“What does?” Jack stood up, exasperated.
“Everything, Jack. Why he hired you, why he didn’t want me to tell you about McMillan’s disappearance, your accident at the Avtozavod.”
“Really? Tell me, in that case.” He raised his voice.
Wilbur Hewitt pocketed his monocle and pulled at his hair. He was silent for a few seconds. Then he looked at Jack wide-eyed. He was about to reply, when an officer burst into the room, and with a great deal of bluster ordered the guard to stop the conversation immediately.
“Why did Sergei hire me? Why?” yelled Jack in German.
The newcomer grabbed Hewitt by an arm and made him stand. Then the industrialist came out of his daze and turned to Jack. “Don’t you see? He didn’t care what you’d find out. He hired you to use you. If McMillan’s dead like you say . . . you were the bait to catch his murderer. You’re his decoy.”
Back in the city, Jack tried to calm Elizabeth down, promising her that her uncle would be safe until the trial.
“My suspicion is that they’re trying to legitimize terminating the contract with Ford in order to save millions of dollars.”
“And what can we do?”
“I don’t know. If they have irrefutable proof, as Sergei says, I don’t think we can do anything. If I were you, I’d travel to Moscow immediately to deliver your uncle’s letter to the ambassador.”
“And leave him here alone?”
“Look, Elizabeth. Stick by him, and all you’ll do is put yourself in danger. Go to Moscow, let the embassy take care of this, and don’t come back to Gorky until it’s resolved.”
“I’m not going to do that. I’m sure between us we can find a way to . . . What is it, Jack? Why are you lowering your head?”
Jack didn’t respond. He took out a cigarette, lit it, and took a puff. He remained silent, but the young woman insisted.
“What is it? Are you not going to help me?”
“That’s what I’ve been doing, isn’t it?”
“Jack, I don’t have anyone else! You know he’s innocent, right?”
Jack took another puff. Then he stubbed out the cigarette and clenched his teeth. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth. You do what you have to do. I’ve already done everything I can.”
Jack stacked the four frozen sacks of potatoes yet again, before accepting that repeating the same task over and over again wouldn’t solve his problems. He looked at what remained of the stock on the shelves. In January, supplies had all but dried up, and the store survived only by selling the shoes that Jim Daniels, Joe Brown, and Miquel Agramunt made from scraps of leather and worn tires as he’d taught them to do. He cursed his bad luck. With Hewitt in prison and hunger taking hold, his future seemed bleak. It was only a matter of time before Sergei fired him.
He threw one of the sacks on the floor and sat on it while he wondered what action he should take. He was sorry for Elizabeth, but couldn’t help feeling manipulated by one and all: Sergei, Hewitt . . . Even Elizabeth had come to him only when she’d needed someone. He didn’t know what to do. If he tried to help Hewitt, Sergei would see it as an affront to the Soviet regime and take reprisals, but on the other hand, if he refused to meet Elizabeth’s demands, sooner or later Hewitt would reveal his involvement in acquiring false passports and organizing their escape. As for Natasha, he knew only that he missed her.
He went outside to enjoy the peace and quiet of the open area at the entrance to the village. He wrapped himself in his coat, then filled his lungs in the hope that the icy wind would help clear his head. Though he longed to be with Natasha again, he’d decided to stop seeing her until the situation improved. He wasn’t in the mood to share his worries with her, knowing that at any moment either Sergei or Elizabeth could come between them. He climbed into the Ford and turned the ignition. It sputtered like a sick man before his heart was resuscitated. He put it in gear, hit the gas, and made it slide over the ice in the direction of his house. For now, keeping Elizabeth happy would give him time to think, even if it meant being away from Natasha for a time.
He found the young American huddled in front of the fire in the living room. She looked as if she hadn’t left the chair all day. Her face was stained with eye shadow, like dirty drips on a whitewashed wall. Jack placed a piece of newspaper containing a portion of black bread on her lap, and she gazed at it with about as much interest as if he’d laid a pebble there. Finally, she turned to look at him. Her moist eyes shimmered in the light from the flames. “What am I going to do, Jack?”
He didn’t respond. He didn’t even know how to deal with his own problems. He sat beside her, contemplating the fire that was turning the logs to ash, and he saw a metaphor for what the Soviet Union was doing to their lives.
“I thought I’d ask a friend to get the message to the embassy. He works for the OGPU, but he’s American. I guess he’ll know how to do it.”
“What friend? The one you spoke to at the opening of the store?”
“Yeah. Walter.”
“Good idea,” she said without conviction.
Jack observed her. She looked like a broken toy. His watch showed 8:00 p.m. “Come on! Wash your face and wrap up warm. We’ll make the most of the darkness and go take a look around your uncle’s house. Maybe we can find something there that’ll help us.”
“The Soviets will have turned it upside down already.”
“We have nothing to lose by trying.” He helped her decide by taking her by the arm.
Fifteen minutes later, Jack stopped the car a block away from the mansion assigned to Hewitt. They covered the remaining distance on foot. After checking that nobody was watching the house, he wrapped himself in a sheet to camouflage himself in the snow, ran to the door, and signaled to Elizabeth to approach. The young woman rushed to join him, but slipped on the icy road and cried out when she hit the ground. A light came on in a nearby window. As quickly as he could, Jack swooped on Elizabeth to hide her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, huddled under the sheet. “Have they seen us?”
“Shhh.” He peered out from under the sheet to check. “They’ve turned off the light. Let’s go!”
They ran to the threshold of the house. Jack warned Elizabeth to breathe lightly in case their breath gave away their presence.
“The key!”
She took it out, opened the door, and they went in. Feeling his way in the dark, Jack checked that all the shutters on the windows were shut. Even so, he drew all the curtains before turning on the flashli
ght.
“Jesus Christ!” she exclaimed.
Jack remained silent and continued to shine his light around the house. “The hyenas haven’t even left the bones,” he said.
The room looked more like a battlefield than a parlor. Moving the toppled chairs aside, Jack walked among sofas and armchairs that had been cut open. After inspecting one of the bedrooms upstairs, he decided that, had Hewitt hidden some valuable document, Sergei would now have it. He went back down to the ground floor to join Elizabeth again. “At least we’ve tried,” he murmured, and turned off the flashlight.
“Wait! Shine it there.” She held Jack’s wrist to guide the beam of light into a corner, beside the fireplace.
“It’s just a bunch of old newspapers.”
“They’re my uncle Wilbur’s newspapers!” she said, as if Jack’s comment were an insult.
“We have to go now.”
“Let’s take them. It will comfort my uncle to be able to read a paper the next time I visit him.”
“Are you crazy? We’d need a wheelbarrow to carry that mountain. If you want, take a few and let’s get out of here.”
“We can do it. We’ll put them on top of the sheet and drag them to the car.”
Jack saw Elizabeth’s face and knew she wouldn’t give in. The last thing they needed was to have an argument in the house. He swore and pointed the light at the stack of newspapers again. There weren’t as many as he’d thought. “All right. We’ll take them.”
Between the two of them, they made a bundle with the sheet and dragged it to the door. Jack opened it carefully. There was nobody outside. On his signal, they ran, crouching, pulling the bundle to the car. It started on the second attempt, and they drove home.
Jack rose early to take the tram that went up to the office that the OGPU had set up at the entrance to the kremlin where he had been informed Walter was now stationed. He found his friend in a temporary hut, wearing a brown uniform and buried under a pile of reports. He guessed Walter would be glad to take a break, but when Jack greeted him, his friend, far from seeming pleased, took off his spectacles and jumped up as if he’d seen the devil in the flesh. Without giving him time to speak, he grabbed Jack’s arm and dragged him out of the hut, much to the surprise of the Soviet clerk who shared his desk.
The Last Paradise Page 34