by D. R. Bell
“What happened when the scheme collapsed?”
“Oh, the insiders just found another way to rig the game. The oligarch in charge set up various finance and service companies that were supposed to make the operations more efficient but in reality were skimming the cash flow. That lasted for a couple of years, until Putin got rid of the old oligarchs and brought in the new ones. They are still skimming, but not quite as bad; at least some money gets reinvested into the business. Of course, I quit five years ago, I am not involved anymore.”
“Why did father take this case?”
Andrei falls silent, then reaches into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and offers me one. I shake my head. He lights up. “You are right, doctors keep telling me I should stop. But here I am, enjoying a cigarette, in Peter, sitting in front of the Bronze Horseman during a white night, talking to my brother…You don’t mind me calling you that? We are not biological brothers, but I loved your parents with all my heart, so perhaps I have earned the right.”
I choke up. “Of course I don’t mind.”
“Why did father take the case?” he repeats. “I think for the same reason that I refused to shoot in Budapest. Did you read his war diary?”
“I found it in his desk a few days ago. There are pages missing.”
Andrei nods. “I know. You see, to understand him, to understand your mother, to understand me, you have to understand the diary.”
“But they never talked to me about that!” I cry out. Some of the people milling around turn to look at the source of the commotion. “They did not talk to me about the blockade! They did not tell me about you! I did not know about the letter! Father left nothing but a part of his diary, not even a will!”
“They were just trying to protect you in the only way they knew how.” Andrei puts a hand on my shoulder. “I think they wanted to spare you the horror. Father could not tell you how much he despised the system where the few so blatantly take advantage of the many. I think it was the forced displays of false fervor and denigration of anyone that so much as did not show enough enthusiasm for the leadership that really incensed him. He could not share this with you.”
“Did he continue writing?”
“No. He was a creative person, but he gave up trying to write. He did not want to write what the government would have approved, and he did not want to risk getting his family into trouble.”
We sit in silence for a while.
Then Andrei quietly says, “Everything happens for a reason, but often we don’t know what it is. For years, it seemed that the 1956 Hungarian uprising was in vain, that people had died for no reason, that my small rebellion had only hurt me and my family and achieved nothing. Then in 1989 the Hungarians reburied Imre Nagy, the hero of the 1956 revolution. On October 23, 1989, on the thirty-third anniversary of the uprising, they proclaimed the new Hungarian Republic and threw out the communist leadership. As the Iron Curtain between Hungary and Austria fell and the borders became open, more and more East Germans started leaving through that border. Fifty thousand people escaped in a week. And that may have been the final catalyst for the Berlin Wall coming down and the world changing. So perhaps it was not all in vain. Perhaps the thousands of small individual tragedies and sacrifices did collectively change the course of history.”
Andrei takes a whizzing breath, continues.
“All my life I felt guilty because your parents suffered to save me. Father killed a man because of me; I don’t think he ever gotten over it.”
“Which man?” I raise my voice again. “What are you talking about?”
“You’ll find out. I now believe that there was a purpose to me being saved. Perhaps it was meant for me to meet with you and give you the story. Might be that that’s what the universe wanted.” He slowly stands up. “Pavel, I am tired. I’ll explain the rest of the diary tomorrow. Do you think we can find a taxi to get back?”
Thursday, June 22
The clock says 8:32 when I wake up. Andrei insisted on me taking the bed and him sleeping on the couch. I kept tossing and turning in the milky semi-darkness of a northern summer night, until an exhaustion overcame me and I dropped into a deep dark hole.
I get up and quietly tip-toe into the living room. I don’t have to be quiet, Andrei is gone. On the table, there is a thick envelope and a handwritten piece of paper on top of it:
Dear Pavel,
I am sorry I snuck out like a thief in the night, but you were tired, and I did not want to wake you up. I did not tell you yesterday that I purchased a round-trip ticket and my return flight is this afternoon. I am going to the cemetery to see father. I want to go by myself. From there, I will go straight to the airport.
I am so glad to have met you. In the envelope there are missing pages from the diary. You see, the diary was dangerous, and back in ‘46 your father hid it. After Stalin died, he brought it out of hiding. I read the diary in ’64, when I came back from the camps for the first time. But then things became dangerous again, with me being around, involved in the samizdat. I knew they were going to come after me and that the diary was again dangerous to have around. Father was tired of hiding, so I tore out the most dangerous pages and concealed them at the top of the stairwell. I came back in ’84 when mother died. I was out of the camps already, and nobody cared about a broken old zek, so I retrieved the torn-out pages and took them with me to Ufa. I am giving them back to you, they are rightfully yours.
I have also enclosed a copy of father’s will. He gave it to me last summer; he felt that the project he took on was risky and wanted to make sure that his will survived. This apartment is all he owned, and he wanted you to have it. Please respect his wishes. I have no need of the apartment, I don’t want it. It brings up difficult memories, and I don’t plan to return to St. Petersburg ever again. He left me the old volume of The Count of Monte Cristo; I am taking it, that’s all I want. Lastly, I enclosed some old pictures that you may want to have.
Thank you for letting me see the Bronze Horseman one last time.
Andrei
I re-read the letter to fully comprehend its contents. As I finish, the bell rings.
I open the door in my underwear. It’s Zorkin.
“Pavel Vladimirovich, I am sorry, I can come back later.”
“It’s all right, come in.”
“Well, I looked into the matter that you asked me. Turns out there was one Grigoriy Voronezhsky that studied in the St. Petersburg State University. Not only that, he did graduate studies at the Faculty of International Relations and completed his dissertation in 1998.”
“Do you know what his dissertation was about?”
“I am afraid I don’t. Now, Pavel Vladimirovich, I’ve done everything you asked of me, how about we discuss the apartment?”
“Very well, Evgeny Antonovich. As you can see, I just got up. Would you mind giving me half-an-hour to wash up and get ready? Come back then and we’ll discuss business.”
“Of course.” Zorkin’s face lights up, he can smell the prize.
I do need a bit of time to think. I wash up, get dressed, and go downstairs to the Sweet Tooth café where I get myself a cake and a large coffee. As I settle back in the apartment, the plan comes to me.
Zorkin is punctually at the door in thirty minutes, carrying a folder with some papers. He tries to speak, but I interrupt him. “Here’s what we are going to do, Evgeny Antonovich. I will sell you this apartment for a million dollars.”
Zorkin first smiles, but then catches himself and theatrically spreads his arms. “Pavel Vladimirovich, that is way too much. In this situation, there is a lot of complicated paperwork–”
I stop him again. “Evgeny Antonovich, let’s not even go down this path. You know very well that this flat in this location is worth at least a million and a half. And to you it’s worth more because you’ll have a whole story of this building to yourself. Half a million discount justifies a lot of complicated paperwork. And a couple of additional favors I will need from you.�
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“Additional favors?” Zorkin is scared that his grip on the apartment is slipping away.
“Yes. First, I want the transaction to be done quickly and the money deposited into my account on Monday.”
Zorkin groans but does not protest.
“Second, I want to be able to go to the St. Petersburg State University and see the dissertation that Grigoriy Voronezhsky wrote.”
This worries him. “Why? What are you getting me into? This can be dangerous!”
“Evgeny Antonovich, I just want to see a dissertation that a student wrote, not some secret military plans. This is Russia; anything can be arranged for money, and the half-a-million discount you are getting should cover quite a few, how shall we put it, incentives.”
Zorkin is unsure, but then he is so close.
“Pavel Vladimirovich, if I find a way to do this and I bring you the paperwork to sign tomorrow, will you sign it? Or will you find something else?”
“Evgeny Antonovich, prepare the paperwork, and I will sign it. There will be nothing else, I promise.”
A bell rings.
“And now if you excuse me, Evgeny Antonovich, I have other visitors. I am working exclusively with you…for now.”
I open the door to a tall, thin man around forty. He is dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt. His face seems to be all out of proportion, with a prominent jaw, a long nose, and tiny ears, but the combination is saved by friendly brown eyes.
“Pavel Rostin?” he says.
“Yes.”
The man’s eyes travel to Zorkin, who is standing right behind me.
I turn to send him away. “This is my neighbor Evgeny Antonovich Zorkin, he was just leaving.”
Zorkin mumbles something and disappears behind his door. I have no doubt he is listening, probably wondering whether this is his competition for the flat. I point to Zorkin’s door and motion for the man to be quiet. He understands. I step back to grab a copy of Palmer’s statement with Streltsova’s notes and to put on a jacket, close the door and we quietly walk out of the building.
“Are you Konstantin Mershov?”
“No,” the man laughs and sticks out his hand, “I am Ivan Mershov. Konstantin is my father.”
I shake the hand he offered.
“Ivan? My father worked for Ivan Mershov.”
“Yes, my grandfather. My father is waiting for you. Can’t drive on Malaya Sadovaya, so we parked just around the corner.”
I follow Ivan to an old Zhiguli parked near the Turgenev statue. Three people are standing next to it: an old man of around seventy and two tall teenagers.
Ivan introduces me. “This is Pavel Rostin.”
“Hello, Pavel,” says the old man. “I am Konstantin Mershov. I am sure you don’t remember, it’s been almost forty years since I saw you. You’ve already met my son. This is my grandson, Vitaly, and his friend Oleg Khmelco.”
I shake hands with all of them.
The old man says, “I hope you have a few hours. I asked my boys to take a day off, go for a drive.”
“Where?”
“Just out of the city, to one of the memorials. This is June 22nd.”
The day when Germany attacked. I forgot. Or rather, I am not used to thinking about this date.
Mershov reads my face. “Yes, people here still celebrate the Victory Day, but not many remember the day when the war started sixty-five years ago. Why don’t you climb in the back with me, let the younger generation drive and navigate.”
Zhiguli is a small car, so Vitaly has to squeeze in the back with us, with Konstantin in the middle. Ivan maneuvers us on Nevskiy Prospekt and heads east, across the Fontanka River, past the Moskovskaya train station.
“Pavel, is there anything in particular that you wanted to know?” asks Konstantin.
I get the Streltsova’s paper out of my pocket. “I am trying to learn more about this.”
Konstantin puts on glasses, reads the short paper, hands it back to me. “Let’s talk about this a bit later.”
We cross Neva over Alexander Nevskiy Bridge and turn right onto Dalnevostochny Prospekt.
“You won’t remember my father,” says Mershov. “He was only 57 when he died, two months before his grandson was born. I think most of those that survived the blockade died early; too much of their life force was taken by that horror. My mother only outlived him by two years. And your mother died young, too. Your father was an exception, it was like the suffering made him stronger. He had a certain tough grace about him, an elegant but unyielding dignity of honest strength. You know, your father was like a second son to my dad.”
Runs in the family, I think, we find ourselves second fathers. But mine waited until his was gone.
We turn left onto a Murmanskiy highway and proceed east. Majestic buildings of the old St. Petersburg are far behind us now. Instead, the houses here are all built in the shape of match boxes: match box standing upright, matchbox lying down, matchbox on its side.
“Perhaps it was the way your father took on responsibilities and took care of people,” continues Mershov. “In the first winter of the blockade, people only took care of their families. Some only took care of themselves. When you are starving and freezing, you can’t afford to be helpful. I was six. I saw people sit down and you knew if they didn’t get up, they’d freeze to death. But you walked by without looking because if you tried to help, they’d take you down with them. The kids that lost their parents…most of them died the same winter. But not Andrei. Your parents took him even though they were starving themselves. And later, they did not send him to an orphanage as they were supposed to. They raised him instead. And they were only the age of my grandson here. I read once a beautiful Jewish saying: One who saves a life, saves an entire world. Your parents saved an entire world.”
We cross another bridge over Neva. The river makes a semi-circle as it flows from the Lake Ladoga to the sea. There is a white-on-blue sign To Shlisselburg, 2.5km. Konstantin tells his son to take the exit. We get off the highway and pull into a park.
“Let’s go for a walk,” commands Konstantin.
We walk by a sign, Museum of Breaking the Leningrad’s Blockade. In the clearing stand half a dozen of Soviet tanks from World War II, with the museum building behind them. There are only a few people in the park, mostly tourists with cameras.
Konstantin points back to the river. “That’s where they crossed it in January of ‘43. I was here with your father a few years back and he was showing me where the crossing was, where the German fortifications were. They called him up in August of ’42. A month earlier, and he would have been thrown into a bloody Sinyavino Offensive just south of here. These marshes…” He swept his arm in a semi-circle. “…are full of bones and metal. But that’s where they broke the encirclement.” He turns to Ivan and the boys. “Why don’t you go look at the tanks and the museum. Pavel and I need to talk.”
Konstantin and I walk slowly into the woods, down an overgrown path.
“I am sorry to drag you here,” he says, “but I come to this place every June 22nd. I think it’s good for Vitaly and Oleg to remember; the young generation does not think about the war. That’s the problem, as people forget about the horror, they are more inclined to repeat the same mistakes.” He stops and turns to me. “About that paper you showed me – your father came to me with a similar question a few months ago. It’s a dangerous topic, I did not want to discuss it in front of my family. I joined the KGB in 1958, right after college. Had this romantic notion of fighting foreign spies. But in Leningrad, I mostly dealt with the dissidents. I managed to stay away from Andrei’s case, but I still hated the work. After my parents died, I applied to transfer to Moscow, to the First Directorate. It was the foreign intelligence part of the KGB. I did not get any foreign postings, but I was involved in operations abroad.”
Konstantin resumes walking.
“Forward ahead to the mid-80s,” he says. “The Soviet Union is falling apart. As usual, the upper echelons,
the Party Central Committee, the leadership of the KGB, they are all trying to figure out how to take care of themselves. They’ve been looting the country for decades. The amount of wealth that the Party has accumulated is staggering. And now they are afraid that a revolution is coming and they will lose everything. So they start preparing. A special group gets formed, firms get set up abroad, funds get transferred.”
“How do you know? Were you involved?”
“If I was involved, I would not be talking to you right now. I would be either somewhere high up in the government or, more likely, dead. There is a difference between knowing about it and having the information. The program went on for at least six years; you can’t keep something like this secret. People within the KGB knew about it. People within the CIA and the MI6 knew about it. The devil is in the details, and very few people knew the details. And those who knew, they are not talking. Most of them must be dead. Nikolai Kruchina was one well-known case. He was the Central Committee’s treasurer, he knew the names, the firms, the accounts. So when the ’91 putsch failed, when it became clear that this was the end for the Central Committee and for the KGB, Kruchina supposedly threw himself down a stairwell. But there were others that suddenly died or disappeared. The ones that survived, they looted the country and got away with it.”
“How much money are we talking about?”
“Who knows, must be hundreds of billions. They ruled the country for seventy years. Hard currency, diamonds, gold, priceless works of art…the Party had it all, and it’s all gone.”
It’s quiet, except for the sounds of our footsteps. “Mr. Mershov…”