Jack swallowed. Stalin was making the dispute personal. Making Jack seem like an enemy to Communism’s achievements. If he didn’t counter it, the rest of his defense would have as much weight as a speck of dust in the wind. “In that case, I suppose all these mutilations were among the sacrifices that were expected,” said Jack.
Stalin gave him a murderous look. The young American was proving to be a skilled adversary.
“Mr. Beilis . . . Your arguments are pathetic. You compare Germany with the Soviet Union, invoking their translation of a manual and their observance of the maintenance schedules. However, you go to great pains to conceal the other facts.”
“Which facts?”
“The ones that make your defense a fallacy. You avoid mentioning the differences between the Gorky and Berlin factories, but I know them well, because I signed every last contract myself. You forget to point out that the Ford A manufactured in Berlin was not the first vehicle that Ford had produced in Germany. You forget to report that in 1912, the first trade delegation was set up in Hamburg; that Ford tractors have been sold in Berlin since 1925; and that in that same year, a factory was opened in the Westhafen district to manufacture the Model T. You hide the fact that the Model T was produced in that Berlin factory until it was replaced by the Model A in 1928. And you intentionally hide from this courtroom the fact that the brand-new machinery they used, which was so perfectly maintained, is the same machinery that, after running without rest for four years, was dismantled and sent to Gorky’s Avtozavod. So do not speak to me about German maintenance, or German translations, or German workers. They had years of experience, with new machines and manuals inherited from old models. Do not make demands on us like a capitalist country, when your defendant, Wilbur Hewitt, sold us scrap metal at steel prices.”
37
Jack used the recess to go to the American store. He found Joe Brown and Miquel Agramunt there, frightened as rabbits. Neither Harry Daniels nor his elder son had shown up for work.
“We think they’ve been arrested,” Miquel told him. “The Black Crows turned up this morning and took about a dozen Americans.”
Jack kicked a half-empty sack. That he hadn’t also been arrested only confirmed that everything was part of a plot to give the trial a veneer of legitimacy. In any case, everything was beginning to fall apart. He advised Joe and Miquel to stay at home until things calmed down. Then he rushed off to meet Ivan Zarko. It was obvious now that his only hope was to escape the Soviet Union before the verdict was reached.
He found the man eating with Yuri, his nephew, in a warehouse near the repair shop where they’d hidden his old automobile. When Ivan saw him, he made a face. Still, he invited Jack to join them, and asked about the case.
“Things are complicated,” Jack replied. “Thanks for putting me onto that lawyer. Shame he’s an alcoholic . . .”
“Alcoholic? Even drunk, that old man’s head and shoulders above any of the lawyers who buzz around like fleas trying to get a seat in the party. Anyway, in the Soviet Union, drinking vodka’s no disgrace; it’s a privilege!” He served himself a glass. “Tell me, Jack, what can I do for you?”
“I need the passports. I don’t know how long the trial will go on, but things might turn ugly sooner than expected.”
Zarko shook his head. “I was about to send Yuri to speak to you.”
“Oh?”
“It’s about the price. The passports are almost ready, but my supplier says he’s had unexpected costs.”
“What kind of costs?”
“I don’t know. A thousand. Maybe two.”
Jack scowled. He rummaged in his jacket and took out fifteen hundred rubles. “Here. It’s all I have on me. I’ll give you the rest tomorrow.”
Ivan Zarko exploded with laughter. Yuri gave him a puzzled look, then followed his lead, guffawing even louder than his uncle. Jack thought both of them were out of their minds.
“Not rubles. Dollars. Two thousand dollars, boy,” Ivan explained before taking another swig of vodka.
Jack clenched his teeth. He had no choice but to trust Zarko. He agreed to bring the required amount. “When will you have the passports?”
“In a week,” Ivan replied. “And the money?”
“In a week. When I’m holding them in my hands.”
He was about to leave the warehouse, when he suddenly stopped to think over what he was going to do. He turned to the crook again, looking him in the eyes. “And get another one ready for a twenty-five-year-old Russian woman. I don’t care what it costs. I’ll send you the details.”
The trial resumed with Elizabeth absent. She’d wanted to attend, but Jack had made her see that such a sudden recovery from her illness would arouse suspicion, making their defense less credible. However, the real reason was that he didn’t want her to witness the railroading of Hewitt that he knew would take place. Elizabeth agreed in the end and busied herself organizing the newspapers she’d rescued from her uncle’s mansion.
The session began with the usual avalanche of cheers to mark the arrival of Stalin and his cronies. Once they were seated, Jack returned Viktor Smirnov’s greeting when he approached to ask about Jack’s role as Wilbur Hewitt’s defense attorney.
“I didn’t know you were a lawyer as well as a mechanic,” the Soviet official said to him, less dressed up than usual to avoid clashing with his comrades.
“Me neither. I’m just doing it to help Elizabeth.”
“I see! You rascal. A tasty morsel . . . but mind you don’t choke on it.”
By the time Jack arrived, Sergei was already on the platform, organizing his notes. The OGPU head asked General Secretary Stalin for permission to proceed and began his harangue. Jack barely paid attention; he was still worried about the Daniels family’s whereabouts. However, his anxiety turned to despair when he realized that though the session had started, Wilbur Hewitt hadn’t yet taken his seat.
“Esteemed comrades,” exclaimed Sergei, “I hope today that I have shown the lack of evidence in the arguments of the defense. Mr. Beilis has tried to lay the blame with the Soviet people, with us, his customers and hosts, for the outrages committed by his own American bosses. He has accused us of a lack of foresight, of negligence and neglect, and a thousand other things, knowing—and I repeat, knowing—that most of the sabotage must have been perpetrated by highly specialized personnel, as he himself admits in this report he signed.” He showed the courtroom a document on which Jack Beilis’s signature was clearly visible. “It’s curious: he brands us as inept, guilty of negligence, and yet he has no qualms about holding us responsible for the actions of American experts trained and overseen by Wilbur Hewitt himself.
“Comrades, the time has come to prove every last crime committed by the accused, so that we are left in no doubt as to his complete and utter culpability. I will do so beginning with the gravest of these crimes: conspiring to profit from the public resources of the Soviet Union. Resources that its sons and daughters have paid for with blood and sweat.” A burst of applause obliged Sergei to break off. He took the chance to drink from a glass.
“Wilbur Hewitt”—he pointed at the industrialist’s empty chair without the slightest tremble in his finger—“devised a Machiavellian plan in which he involved some of his compatriots who are at this very moment under arrest. Wilbur Hewitt plotted, lied, and bribed to replace a batch of machinery from Dearborn, paid for on the assumption that it was new, for another of a similar appearance, but used, damaged, and dangerous, from the dismantled factory in Berlin where he had previously worked. The difference in the price, millions of Soviet rubles, ended up in his own pocket and those of the traitors who helped him.”
At that moment, Jack thought of the Daniels family again. He prayed that Sergei’s insanity hadn’t touched them as well. The OGPU officer took out a note and went on.
“To prove it, I am going to read the transcription of a telephone conversation that I myself had with Mr. George McMillan, who at that time was Wilbur Hewit
t’s head supervisor and engineer, but whom I hired behind his back to investigate the irregular activities of his superior the moment they were first detected. The transcription is of a telephone call from the Hotel Metropol in Moscow on January 5, 1933, just over a year ago, received at my office at the OGPU’s kremlin headquarters.”
He read it out loud:
Good morning. Could you put me through to Sergei Loban’s office, please?
Who’s calling?
George McMillan. It’s urgent.
One moment, sir. I’ll check and put you through . . .
Sergei Loban speaking. How may I help you?
Mr. Loban. It’s George McMillan. I’ve found the proof you were looking for in relation to the misappropriation of funds.
Do you have it with you?
Yes. I have everything. Records of the transfers, the amounts, everything.
Very well. Where are you now?
At the Metropol.
Good. Stay where you are. I’ll send a vehicle to collect you immediately.
“As you can see, the conversation unequivocally incriminates Wilbur Hewitt, whom McMillan was investigating. I concede the floor to the defense, should he wish to make any further statements or attempt to rebut the People’s evidence.”
Jack stood up. He looked at the accused’s empty chair, and turned to Sergei. “Thank you very much, Mr. Loban. Yes. I would certainly like to raise a point that no doubt many of you will have noticed. Why is Mr. Hewitt not here?”
“The defendant is indisposed. It must be a family trait,” Sergei responded with irony.
“Do you not intend to question him?”
“It won’t be necessary for now. The accused has already made a full statement in writing.”
“Oh, I see!” Jack prayed that Hewitt hadn’t implicated him in the business with the false passports. “Excuse my ignorance, but what if the accused wished to retract his statement?”
“Mr. Beilis,” Stalin cut in, “if his previous statement were retracted, it would mean that in one of his two accounts he was lying, whereby any testimony of his would be invalidated.”
“And what if I wished to question him?”
“It would be taken into account. But continue with your questions for now; in view of the evidence, you might not consider it necessary.”
“Very well, Mr. General Secretary. In that case I will follow your advice.” He looked at his notes and turned back to the head of the OGPU. “Mr. Loban, I’ve listened carefully to your description of what you call proof, but from your reading of the telephone conversation that you claim to have had with Mr. McMillan, I cannot infer Wilbur Hewitt’s involvement. His name is not mentioned at any time. How can you therefore be so sure it was him?”
Sergei smiled, as if he had an ace waiting up his sleeve. “For two reasons. First, because the transfers that George McMillan refers to in his call were to Wilbur Hewitt’s personal account: fifty thousand dollars from the coffers of the Soviet Union.” He showed the room a copy of the accounting records. “And second, and more important, because a witness saw Wilbur Hewitt murder McMillan and throw the body from the Bolshoy Kamenny Bridge into the Moskva River on the same afternoon as the call.”
Jack let out a sigh of astonishment. “And may I ask who that witness is?” he sputtered.
“Of course. He’s sitting in this room right now. Officer Viktor Smirnov.”
Jack could barely contain his shock. As he gathered his notes at the end of the session, he understood that Hewitt’s fate was sealed. All the evidence incriminated him: McMillan’s telephone call, the accounting records, and above all, Smirnov’s unexpected testimony. He found it hard to believe that the wealthy idler had witnessed McMillan’s murder. But that was precisely what he said in a sworn statement. However, if, as Viktor claimed, Sergei had possessed the incriminating evidence for a full year, why had he waited so long to arrest Hewitt? It made no sense. The only explanation Jack could think of was they had been buying time to root out Hewitt’s Soviet accomplices. After all, that was the reason Wilbur Hewitt had given him when he hired him to replace McMillan with the hidden motive of using him as bait.
The courtroom gradually emptied out. Jack collected his copies of the court minutes and stored them in his case. He didn’t know what he was going to tell Elizabeth. The only thing he knew with certainty was that the permission-granting process they’d gone through to act as Hewitt’s defense had been a farce with which the Soviet regime could legitimize a trial, the verdict of which seemed to have already been decided. Indeed, it had been as farcical as the part played by Viktor Smirnov as a frivolous dilettante.
He knew that Elizabeth would refuse to admit that in the best-case scenario, her uncle Wilbur would spend the rest of his life imprisoned in a labor camp. If she insisted on remaining in Gorky, he knew that sooner or later they would arrest her, too. There was no longer room for half measures. Either Elizabeth fled with him, or he’d escape without her. He still had a chance, though remote, to begin a new life with Natasha.
He was about to head to see Elizabeth, when he spotted Walter walking along on the opposite sidewalk, chatting with a comrade. Jack shouted to him, and Walter hastily parted company with his companion and approached.
“Please, don’t compromise me!” He wouldn’t even accept the hand that Jack offered him in greeting.
“Sorry. I just wanted to ask you about the letter.”
Walter gave a bad-tempered sigh. He looked around him.
“All right. Let’s go down that hallway. But only for a moment.”
Before speaking, Walter made sure there was nobody within earshot. Then he reassured Jack that he had sent Hewitt’s message, but he still hadn’t received confirmation that Dmitri had delivered it to the embassy.
“But the trial’s going to end soon and they’ll sentence him. Maybe if you called the American journalists posted to Moscow, they could—”
“I can’t do any more. I’ve helped you too much already.”
“And what happened to your solidarity? To your principles? A capitalist he may be, but Wilbur Hewitt’s innocent.”
“Don’t you see? What’s at stake here is much more than the life of a single citizen. What’s at stake is the success of the Soviet Union. The success of our struggle and our revolution depends on our strength. If we waver, the imperialist countries will pounce and devour us.”
“I . . . I don’t understand,” Jack muttered.
“Look, Jack. I don’t know why you insist he’s innocent. Forget Hewitt, or you’ll end up like him. Take some friendly advice.”
Walter didn’t let Jack reply. He opened the hall door and left without saying good-bye.
Back home, Jack found Elizabeth sitting by the fire, leafing through an old copy of the New York Times. Seeing him, the young woman left the newspaper on the pile that she’d already inspected and asked about her uncle. When Jack told her he was absent from court, her face darkened.
“They’ve submitted overwhelming evidence. They’re accusing him of some very serious crimes,” he gently tried to explain.
She barely paid attention. Her mind seemed to be somewhere else.
“The trial will likely end tomorrow,” he added. “I guess they’ll bring your uncle to make a statement. You should go.”
“Yeah . . . of course.”
“And be prepared. Before coming home, I spoke to my contact. The passports aren’t ready, but he’s offered to hide us in a safe house until they are. We can stay hidden there and then try to reach Odessa.”
“You’ve planned all this without considering my uncle? Without waiting to hear his sentence?”
“Elizabeth, did you not hear me? I’m just trying to carry out your uncle’s wishes. If they declare him innocent, there won’t be a problem, but if they don’t . . .” He shook his head. “If they condemn him, there won’t be anything he can do to help you.”
Elizabeth cut him off. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say, Jack. Do you
really think I’d abandon him?”
“No. Of course not.” He cleared his throat. “Walter sent the letter to the embassy. I’m sure they’ll be able to get his sentence reduced—”
“You say it as if they’ve already found him guilty! What was the new evidence?”
Jack fell silent. He took a deep breath and searched for a cigarette that he didn’t find. He didn’t want to tell her that her uncle was accused of murder. “Technicalities. It’s all right. I’ll go over my reports one more time,” he said. “Maybe I’ve missed something. In the meantime, we should have some dinner.”
Elizabeth accepted his suggestion. She got up and headed to the little kitchen to stir the soup she’d made from some leftovers she’d found. She served Jack a bowl while he took the court transcripts from his case. Jack saw that there was barely even one piece of potato floating in the broth.
“You forgot to bring supplies from the store,” she explained. “I’m not hungry.”
“It’s not that I forgot—they’ve all but run out,” he murmured, and he spread out the records he’d been given in search of the accounting transactions. He studied them between spoonfuls and made notes in the margins. When he’d finished, he asked Elizabeth to go up to the bedroom.
The Last Paradise Page 38