“Tell me, Viktor . . . When did you start hatching this plan? Was it when George McMillan discovered your intentions? Was that why you murdered him?”
“I’m losing my patience!”
“Do you know what? When Sergei recited McMillan’s telephone call during the trial, one thing that struck me was that, at the end of the call, the American hung up without saying good-bye. I thought it must have been an omission from the transcript, but I checked it out, and those transcriptions always include the pauses, the sneezes . . . every last sigh. If Sergei didn’t read McMillan’s good-bye, it was because the person who was spying on the American at that moment ended his life before he could give him away. The same person who accused Wilbur Hewitt in the trial of a crime he himself had committed. Hewitt, an invalid at the time, would have found it impossible to carry his own suitcase, let alone, as you assured us, lift a man weighing more than two hundred pounds and throw him over a balustrade.”
“Jack . . . Jack . . . Are you forgetting that it was Sergei who submitted that evidence?”
“Evidence that you provided to him, right when you learned that Stalin would be coming to Gorky. I don’t know how you made Sergei believe you, but it was an ideal situation for you, wasn’t it? The perfect moment for Sergei, unable to uncover the traitor he’d been pursuing for so long, to receive evidence that until then he knew nothing about. And the perfect time, moments later, to reveal to Stalin that Sergei, head of the OGPU and whose position you coveted, was a corrupt official whose crimes had to be exposed. The perfect moment to put yourself forward as the hero. Was that how you did it? Was that when you altered the accounts again? Was that when you planned to murder him and take everything for yourself?”
“And what if I did?” he yelled. “Sergei believed me when I told him that I’d put off testifying under direct orders from Moscow, and he kept quiet when I threatened to kill his daughter. Sergei was nothing but a pathetic idealist, a self-righteous fool who really believed in equality for all. Equality? For whom? For those miserable peasants who don’t know a screw from a lump of dung? What’s the point of having power and wealth if you can’t enjoy them?”
“And what does that have to do with massacring innocent people, Viktor? Do you really need to exterminate them to achieve your goals?”
“Ha! Those counterrevolutionaries are scum. Soulless scum! Can you imagine the look on their faces if they knew I had funded the sabotage?”
“You?”
“Come on, Jack. I thought you were smarter than this. What better way to discredit Sergei’s work?”
“Sergei responded to the sabotage with an iron fist, sending the perpetrators to labor camps. That was why you decided to implicate him in the misappropriation of funds. To free yourself of him and Hewitt. I imagine that it would have been easy for you as finance commissar to take money from the Avtozavod and invent a bogus company in the name of Mamayev to transfer the money to Hewitt and incriminate Sergei. Once they were out of the picture, you could control the Avtozavod and the millions of rubles in its accounts as you pleased.”
“Very good . . . It seems the imminence of death has sharpened your intellect. It’s just a shame that—”
Suddenly, his eyes seemed to catch sight of something. Still keeping the revolver aimed at Jack, he moved slowly to the fireplace, where he pushed the embers with his boot.
“Well, well, well, Jack . . . what do we have here?” He bent and picked up a piece of singed paper that he’d just noticed in the ashes, examining it in the ray of light from the window. “It looks like the remains of the report I was looking for! Who would have guessed it? It looks like that idiot Walter Scott carried out his mission after all.” He laughed and struck Jack with the butt of his revolver.
Jack staggered. Despite the pain, he kept his composure, while a trickle of blood ran down from the corner of his mouth.
“Damned American! I should have had you killed when you escaped the conveyor, like I did Orlov.”
Jack spat out a mouthful of blood. Until that moment, he’d believed that Orlov had set the conveyor in motion. “And what stopped you?”
“Your friend Walter. He persuaded me you’d be more useful alive, and to be fair, he was right, because he kept me informed of everything you confided to him.” He dealt Jack another blow, making him go down on one knee. “Pretentious fool . . . You thought you were the smart one. You believed you had me eating out of your hand while you repaired the Buick, but you didn’t know how quickly I discovered your game. Yes. The young man from the party at the Metropol whom I pretended not to recognize, and who had the nerve to show up at my house wearing a bird’s-eye suit. A suit that I would’ve recognized among a thousand others because I gave it to McMillan as a gift. It was a shame my gifts didn’t have the desired effect on him and I was forced to kill him.” His laughter was boastful. “Tell me, Jack . . . Did you really think I’d even care that you had some lousy document? Ha! A million reports wouldn’t have persuaded Stalin. That cretin would never convict me because he’ll always blindly believe every word a relative of his says. You’re as arrogant as Sergei and Natasha.”
“Leave Natasha out of this. She has nothing to do with it.”
“Oh, but she does. She and her father despised me. Did you know Natasha left me? Me! Viktor Smirnov! Stuck-up whore . . . How dare she cast me off!” he cried as if Natasha were in the room and could hear him.
Jack took a step back. “That was why she didn’t want you to know about me and her, right? That was the reason. Natasha wasn’t hiding me from her father; it was your rage she was trying to protect me from.”
“You know what? I think we should continue this conversation somewhere where you can share with us the names of all the people who’ve helped you.” He cocked his weapon. “How ironic, Jack. You came to Russia searching for paradise, and I’m the one who will be sending you there. And, so you see how much I appreciate you, I’ll send Natasha with you.”
“Goddamned bastard! She’s innocent!”
“I’m sure she is,” he said with a cynical laugh, “but I can’t allow Loban’s daughter to run around plotting how to avenge her father’s death. Men! Get in here and hold on to him!” he yelled.
Jack felt rage compress his lungs until he couldn’t breathe. He thought of Natasha, and her memory urged him into action. Taking advantage of the distraction when Viktor’s henchmen entered the house, he swooped on his adversary, dealing him a head butt that made him collapse like a rag doll. Sprawled on the floor, Smirnov screamed at his men to restrain his assailant. One of them grabbed Jack, but he spun around and knocked him down with a punch. He was about to throw himself on Viktor again when, suddenly, he felt a sharp, burning pain in his chest. Then his legs weakened, and he collapsed to his knees. Incredulous, he looked at the dagger that one of the soldiers had just plunged into his chest. When he looked up, he saw Viktor’s stunned face.
As his vision went dark, he heard the new head of the OGPU scolding his men for the stabbing. Then he remembered Natasha’s sweet, honey-flavored kisses. The sweetness turned sour as vinegar as he fell headlong onto the floor.
42
Two days later, with the rebellion stifled and the insurgents arrested, the courtroom at the Palace of Justice reopened for the public trial of the Soviet people versus Natasha Lobanova. The new commissar in charge of the OGPU, Viktor Smirnov, was acting as prosecutor, with Stalin himself the chair. The leader had decided to remain in Gorky until the trial was resolved. After listening to Smirnov’s web of lies about her and her father and his request for a death sentence, Natasha stood impassively waiting for the chairman to give his verdict.
The entire room fell silent when Joseph Stalin stood.
“Natasha Lobanova. You are accused of conspiring against the revolution, plotting with your father, and committing high treason, crimes punishable by death. Do you have anything to say?” the chairman asked.
During the hearing, Natasha had already said everything she had to s
ay. Strong and proud, she fixed her eyes on Stalin’s, knowing that there was nothing she could say that would alter her sentence. In other circumstances, she would have defended herself, but after Yuri had told her that Smirnov had killed Jack and taken his body, there was nothing left for her to live for. Without Jack, she no longer cared.
“Very well. In that case, as chairman of this court”—he paused to look at Natasha—“I declare the defendant, Natasha Lobanova, guilty of the crimes of which she has been accused, and sentence her to the death penalty. The accused will be executed as soon as—”
“One moment!” A trembling voice was heard, coming from the back of the room.
The audience turned to see an old man, his face covered in scars, burst in from the corridor, accompanied by another man in a bow tie carrying a varnished mahogany box.
“By Lenin’s whiskers!” Smirnov sputtered. “Arrest those men!”
“Mr. General Secretary, I beg you! I am here to prevent serious damage to the Soviet Union!” The two men walked forward until they were even with Natasha.
“Silence! Who are you?” Stalin asked.
“Mr. General Secretary, with the utmost respect, I request permission to speak.” He gave something like a bow. “My name is Valeri Pushkin, retired lawyer, and the person accompanying me is Louis Thomson, the New York Times Moscow correspondent. We possess information of great importance to this case and—”
“All the statements have already been heard, and the accused has been found guilty.”
“Yes . . . but, Mr. General Secretary, if you will allow me, you haven’t yet finished meting out a sentence, and as the second paragraph of Article 18 of the Penal Code sets out, all Soviet citizens have the obligation—yes, the obligation—to report any crime included in Article 58. It says so here.” He opened the copy of the Penal Code that he was carrying and waved it in the air.
“Article 58 refers to counterrevolutionary crimes, and this court has already addressed them,” Stalin roared.
“Yes. However, the crime I am referring to, though related to Natasha Lobanova’s case, is another. Please, permit me to—”
“What manner of insubordination is this?” Smirnov cut in. “Arrest him!”
“Mr. General Secretary”—the old lawyer knelt in a calculated theatrical gesture—“Article 1 of our Penal Code specifically states that the purpose of the criminal law of the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic is to defend the socialist workers’ and peasants’ state. If you do not hear me, you run the risk of the Avtozavod falling into the hands of criminals.” He saw Smirnov leave the dais and head toward him, pistol in hand. “I beg you, Comrade Stalin. Do not squander the opportunity to let the Americans know that in the Soviet Union, justice really does prevail.”
Stalin flushed red. For a moment, he looked as if he would draw his own pistol and shoot the retired lawyer himself. However, he clenched his fists and gestured to Smirnov to stop. “It’s all right, Viktor. Leave him,” Stalin said. “You said your name was Valeri . . . ?”
“Valeri. Valeri Pushkin.”
“Very well, Comrade Pushkin. Show us what you have to show us, and let’s put an end to this business once and for all.”
Viktor Smirnov returned his weapon to its holster, but before doing so, he aimed it at the old lawyer and pretended to shoot. Valeri swallowed. Then he opened the mahogany box, and with Louis Thomson’s help, took out a strange device.
“I need a socket. Aha! There’s one . . .”
Smirnov went pale. “Comrade Stalin! Are you going to allow this crazy old man to make a mockery of us?” he bellowed.
“Let him continue. I’m curious. What device is that?”
“It is an American invention, Mr. General Secretary. A phonograph, I believe they call it.” The lawyer plugged in the contraption and turned it on.
“Are you going to play us all a Russian march?”
“Huh? Oh no, sir. These devices are old, really, but very interesting. Unlike modern gramophones, which can only reproduce sound, these contraptions can also record it . . . I’ll show you.”
On his signal, Louis Thomson took a can from the box, removed the lid, and extracted a hollow wax cylinder. He positioned it over the phonograph’s axis, placed the sapphire stylus on the surface, and turned on the motor. The wax cylinder began to turn on itself until suddenly it filled the room with the refrain from Polovtsian Dances of Prince Igor. Before Stalin could recover from his astonishment, the lawyer withdrew the needle and took out a knife. “Now listen,” Pushkin said.
Without stopping the cylinder, he applied the sharp edge of the knife to the cylinder to plane off the outer layer on which the music was engraved, until the cylinder was left completely smooth. Then he placed the stylus back on the surface of the wax, activated a lever, and fell silent.
“Comrade Stalin! I told you that this man is a lunatic!” Smirnov yelled, and he came down from the dais to arrest the lawyer himself.
However, Valeri Pushkin, undaunted, stopped the device, changed the position of the lever, and turned it on again. Before Smirnov reached him, a metallic voice rang out in the courtroom.
Comrade Stalin! I told you that this man is a lunatic!
Comrade Stalin! I told you that this man is a lunatic!
Hearing his own voice coming out of the device, Viktor Smirnov stopped in his tracks. While he stood there bewildered, Valeri Pushkin took another can from the mahogany box and replaced the wax cylinder. He restarted the phonograph, and Smirnov’s voice once again resounded from the horn. However, now, his words, accompanied by Jack’s, were emanating from the horn. Stalin stood up, incredulous.
So you’ve been hiding in this pigsty? I thought you had more taste.
So? The message you sent said something about some reports and an account number. Where are they?
Somewhere safe.
Somewhere safe, of course. And may I ask what you intend to do with them?
Nothing special. Just use them to make you free Natasha and confess your crimes . . .
The phonograph continued to reel off Viktor Smirnov’s confession, to the amazement of the courtroom. Viktor, horrified, tried to interrupt the reproduction, but on a signal from Stalin, several men swooped in and stopped him.
“Comrade Stalin! All of this is a plot!” Smirnov implored as they held him back.
At that moment, with the courtroom in total silence, the phonograph played the final passage.
Tell me, Jack . . . Did you really think I’d even care that you had some lousy document? Ha! A million reports wouldn’t have persuaded Stalin. That cretin would never convict me because he’ll always blindly believe every word a relative of his says.
While Valeri Pushkin approached the dais to show Stalin the copy of the Vesenkha document that Jack had given to Yuri, he could still hear Viktor Smirnov’s final words.
“It’s a plot! Damn you all! Damn you, Jack Beilis!”
43
“Dr. Natasha! There’s a gentleman outside who would like to see you.”
“Please, ask him to wait a moment.”
Natasha Lobanova finished bandaging the tiny leg of the baby she’d just operated on and handed the child to its mother. The woman, a peasant wearing a threadbare scarf on her head, was holding another child by the hand while hugging the baby with her free arm as if it were her most treasured possession. Natasha smiled. She washed her hands and walked out of the treatment room. Outside, Wilbur Hewitt was waiting for her. The man took off his hat and left his briefcase on the floor.
“Please excuse my poor Russian, but I didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye,” Hewitt said.
“I’m sorry I haven’t seen you before. I heard that you were acquitted, but there’s so much to do in the hospital that I haven’t had the chance to—”
“There’s no need to apologize.” He smiled.
“They tell me your niece reached America.”
“Yes, that’s right. They managed to get on a ship in Odessa
.” He paused and adjusted his monocle. “I . . . I’m very sorry about Jack. I didn’t know you and he . . .”
“Yes.” She bit her lips. Her eyes filled with tears. “Almost nobody knew.”
“Well, I’m glad you got your job back. These people need you. Anyway . . . the ambassador’s waiting for me. I must go or we’ll miss the train to Moscow. Thank you for everything, and good luck.”
“To you, too.”
Wilbur Hewitt picked up his briefcase and turned around. Outside, surrounded by suitcases, Louis Thomson and a crestfallen Sue were waiting for him.
Natasha watched them leave. When the car was gone, she returned to her office, checked her patient list, and took off her white coat. The sun was setting. With the arrival of spring, the nights were growing shorter again. She said good-bye to her assistants and left the hospital.
She was still living a frugal life on Cooperative Street in a room with a bed, a table and chair, a small wardrobe, and a sideboard piled high with books.
When she closed the door, she walked slowly over to the phonograph that Jack had wanted her to keep. She was glad that Valeri Pushkin had given it to her before leaving for Leningrad with Ivan Zarko and his family. She stroked the mahogany box that protected it and carefully removed it. As if carrying out a ritual, she took the lid off the metal can and removed the wax cylinder. She positioned it over the phonograph’s axis and cleaned the surface with a silk handkerchief. When the cylinder began to turn, Jack Beilis’s warm voice floated through the room again. Natasha closed her eyes so that she could see him and listen to the sound of his sweet words.
Dear Natasha: I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, but whatever happens, don’t waste your tears on me. On the contrary: smile. Until today I have drifted through life, trying to run away from poverty as if it were the greatest sorrow, without realizing that the misery traveled with me, in my soul.
The Last Paradise Page 43