by Ted Allbeury
“How are you going to do that?”
Josef shrugged helplessly. “I’ve no idea. But I’ll find some way.”
“It won’t be easy, Josef. There are a lot of people in this country who believe in Communism. Not just workers but influential people.”
Josef half-smiled. “You don’t understand do you?”
“Understand what?”
“I’m not against Communism. Communism would work. What they’ve got in Moscow isn’t Communism. It’s Bolshevism. And that’s a very different thing.”
“Was it what they did to your family that disillusioned you?”
“No. I was disillusioned before. I was on the inside. I knew what they were doing. At first I thought it was just a temporary thing that would be over in a few months. But it wasn’t. It was obscene. The Party philosophers writing pamphlets and theses about a brave new world and behind them groups of men fighting like savages for power.” He shook his head sadly. “Nobody could believe or understand what went on unless they were on the inside and saw it happening.”
“Where are you going to live?”
“I’ll probably stay here if I can find work. It doesn’t matter to me where I live.”
“Would you consider moving to London if there was work for you there?”
“I’d move to Land’s End. It makes no odds to me where I live.”
“I know people who could give you work.”
“Doing what?”
“Translating.”
“Translating what?”
“Newspapers, documents—that sort of thing. From Russian into English.”
“How much would I get?”
“Five pounds a week.”
Josef shook his head, smiling. “I’m twenty-two and nobody’s gonna pay somebody that age five quid a week.”
“Why don’t you put it to the test?”
“What sort of firm is this we’re talking about?”
“It’s a small government department but you’d work at home.”
“Do you work for this place?”
“I work for the department that is setting up this new service.”
“You know that I’ve got no education, no qualifications.”
“You may have no formal qualifications but you’ve got all the qualifications we’re looking for.” The man leaned forward and put his hand gently on Josef’s leg. “We’ll look after you.”
And those words to the orphanage boy meant more than the man who called himself Johnny could have known. After a lifetime of looking after himself the words were like balm to his raw, wounded mind. They travelled together to London the following day.
34
Johnny had found him a small flat in one of the rows of Victorian houses on the south side of the river at Putney. It turned out that Johnny was Major Johnson. But he could tell that he wasn’t a normal soldier. He never wore uniform and seemed to be able to come and go as he pleased. But he was obviously a man with considerable authority. He made instant personal decisions when it was necessary. To his surprise his wages were paid promptly, and in cash, every Friday afternoon.
Johnny had bought him dictionaries and a supply of paper for the typewriter, and the material he had to translate was varied. Sometimes an article from Pravda, sometimes the minutes of a Party committee meeting in Moscow or Leningrad. There were frequent reports of the organisation of secret Party cells in other European countries, and confidential reports on industry and agriculture in various parts of the Soviet Union. He was not allowed to keep copies and sometimes a woman’s voice on the telephone would raise queries about some point of English in his translation. He apologised for his poor English but she never commented back.
They had asked him to change his name to Smith and had given him a back-dated insurance card in that name. And his wages came in a plain brown envelope marked “S” and he was asked to sign for them just with the letter “S.” He had been given no special working hours nor was pressure put on him to get work done in a hurry, but he worked a full nine-hour day every day of the week including weekends.
It was almost nine months after he had started work for Johnny Johnson that he was asked if he would deliver a small package to a man in Paris. The address was in the rue Mouffetard, two rooms over a pâtisserie and a man who looked as if he was dying, his face was so gaunt and pale. He was invited inside and he went in reluctantly. But inside, although it was incredibly untidy, it was like so many of those small rooms that he had delivered messages to in Moscow. Even an icon set in a space on the crowded bookshelves and an etching of Karl Marx in a wooden frame on the wall.
The old man pointed to a box with a blanket folded on top of it and when Josef sat down he was handed a small glass of vodka. The old man sat on the ramshackle bed and looked at his messenger.
“What’s your name, young man?”
“I don’t give my name to strangers, mister.”
“And quite right too.” He paused. “When are you going back to London?”
“That’s my business.”
The old man cackled. “You sound like one of those bastards from the Cheka.” He paused. “You ever heard of the Cheka?”
“Yes. I’ve heard of it.”
“I got something for you to take back with you to London.” He paused. “You want it now?”
“Is it small?”
“Yeah. But I’ll have to wrap it up for you.” The old man stood up and walked awkwardly to the bookshelves and took down a thin yellow book. As he walked back Josef noticed the old man’s strenuous efforts to walk and for the first time noticed his misshapen leg. When the man stumbled he jumped up to save him from falling. As his arms went round the man’s frail body he saw the man’s teeth as he fought against the pain.
“Are you OK, Mr. Lukas? Shall I get you some help? A doctor maybe.”
Lukas shook his head. “No. It will go. Just let me sit down.” When he was seated Lukas looked at Josef and said, “When people talk about the brave new world in Moscow just think of my leg, my friend. A present from the comrades.”
“What happened?”
“I had a small printing business. A man asked me to print something for him. I never read it. I was too busy. It was a resolution to the Politburo by Trotsky. They beat me up in the old insurance office in Dzerzhinski Square that the Ve-Cheka have taken over. The doctors say I’ll have to put up with it or have my leg taken off.”
“Are you a White Russian?”
For the first time Josef saw Lukas laugh. “Me? I’m not White nor Red nor any other bloody colour. I’m just a Russian who hates those bastards who broke up my body.”
Josef glanced at the paper cover of the yellow book that Lukas had handed to him. The legend on the cover, in Russian, described the contents as a résumé of the Twelfth Congress of the CPSU. He looked up at Lukas and said, “You’d better cover it up. Have you got some paper we can wrap it in?”
Lukas smiled and said quietly, “So you can read Russian, my friend?”
Josef shrugged. “Perhaps. What about the wrapping paper?”
Ten minutes later, with the document wrapped, Josef stood at the door and turned to look at the old man. He said in Russian, “You’re working against them aren’t you?” When the old man nodded Josef said, “I’m sorry about what they did to you. Some day it will change.”
“Goodbye, young man. But stop dreaming dreams. Nothing will change. But we can hurt them by letting the world know what they do to their own working-people.”
Major Johnson had asked him about the hour or so that he spent with Lukas. He listened intently as Josef told him what had been said, but he asked no more questions and had not pursued the matter. But when Josef was leaving Johnson said, “What did you think of Lukas?”
“He’s very lonely. And very sick.”
Johnson nodded but said nothing more.
It was almost four months later when Major Johnson asked him if he would be prepared to go to Paris for a few months to help Lukas, who
found it more difficult to get around. Josef had pointed out that he spoke no French but Johnson said it didn’t matter. The only people he would be dealing with were Russians. It never entered his mind to refuse and he had left for Paris a week later.
But in that week Johnson had briefed him carefully about his new duties in Paris. His job would be to liaise with groups of Russians who were anti-Bolshevik. In some cases anti-Revolution as well. He was to pass funds and messages to them and tell them what London wanted in return. He was warned that they were not easy to deal with. Not only differing convictions and objectives but forceful, independent leaders who quarrelled bitterly among themselves. He was to keep an eye on what they were doing, interpret their usefulness to London and try and hold the peace between them.
Before he left for Paris a meeting had been arranged by Major Johnson. It was at the St. Ermin’s Hotel and the man’s name was Mason. Just the two of them. He was about the same age as Johnson but not so easy-going. He had asked Josef about his time in Moscow and Leningrad. He talked slowly as if he was slow in absorbing what was said, digesting it before he asked the next question. But as the chat went on Josef realised that Mason wasn’t slowminded or stupid, he was just a very clever interrogator. Never asking the same question twice as if he doubted the truth of what Josef said, but frequently crossing the tracks of what had been said, checking obliquely but with that innocent country-bumpkin look of trying hard to understand what he was being told. What also seemed odd was that, unlike this man, Major Johnson had never asked him about his time in Russia.
Johnson had seen him off on the boat-train at Victoria and had said that Mason was much impressed by Josef’s attitude. Josef had no idea what he meant. He hadn’t had an attitude. He’d just answered some questions. He’d been given a hundred pounds for his expenses in Paris, in cash. More money than he had ever handled in his life before.
The old man, Lukas, had helped him find a room for himself in the rue Mouffetard at the back of a butcher’s shop. He had paid for Lukas to see a doctor and gone with him to the surgery. The doctor had come out of his small office and told Josef that Lukas was terminally ill. He had no more than a few months to live.
But it was nearly two years later when the old man died and in the meantime Josef had consolidated his relationships with the various groups in contact with Lukas. It was all a vivid reminder of his early days in Moscow. The committees, the resolutions, the speeches and pamphlets and the rivalries. Nevertheless, the contacts those groups had in the Soviet Union were widespread and in all walks of life. Josef talked and listened and painstakingly typed out his reports and delivered them in sealed envelopes to a man at the British Embassy, to be forwarded to London via the diplomatic bag. From time to time London asked him to pursue certain items but there was no pressure of any kind. His wages had been increased to ten pounds a week when he moved to Paris and they paid the rent for his room in Putney while he was away.
Lukas died in the summer of 1927 and there was only Josef and Major Johnson at his funeral. The people in London had paid for everything. After it was over they went back to Josef’s room. Johnson said they should have a talk.
He was to be given a new name—Sanders, and he was to have new responsibilities. He would take over Lukas’s job and also be responsible for maintaining contact with anti-Bolshevik groups in Berlin.
Two years later he was pulled back to London with the suggestion that he should have formal education in the Russian language. He never saw himself as having a choice in how his life should be. He counted himself lucky to be so well-paid. The Russian course took a year and then he was interviewed by Mason again. This time in a private room at the Reform Club.
“Remind me,” Mason said. “What do we call you these days?”
“Sanders, sir. Josef Sanders.”
“Yes, of course. You did very well on your Russian course. Your tutor says you speak more fluently than he does.”
“He kept telling me that I’d never learn the grammar of Russian because I didn’t know the grammar of my own language.” Josef smiled. “I never could work out the difference between accusative and dative.”
“Ah, yes.” Mason looked embarrassed at the frankness, or the ignorance. It was hard to tell which. He shifted uneasily in the big leather armchair. “I’d like to put a suggestion to you if I may.”
“Whatever you want is OK with me, Mr. Mason.”
“Kind of you, I’m sure. Let me explain first before you agree. I—we—would like you to be put on a more official, more substantial footing. You have done valuable work for us in your own modest way and there is much else that we would like you to do that could not be done by a civilian.” He paused and shuffled his body again. “Briefly, I am authorised to offer you a commission as a full lieutenant in the army.” He sat back slapping his thighs with both hands as if he was glad to get done with a rather dubious proposition.
“I don’t know anything about soldiering, Mr. Mason.”
“Of course not. Of course not. You wouldn’t have to do any of that. It’s just a device—a way—of making you official, giving you some proper standing in the service.”
“I don’t understand, Mr. Mason. What service are we talking about?”
“Who do you think you’re working for?”
“Major Johnson said it was a small government department that was interested in what is going on in the Soviet Union.”
“And you didn’t wonder why a government department should be interested in those things?”
Josef shrugged. “No. It’s not my business.”
“Well. I suppose that’s a point of view.” He paused. “A very practical point of view if I may say so.” Mason leaned forward awkwardly. “We’re a department that is responsible for collecting intelligence about the Soviet Union.”
“You mean research?”
“It’s rather more than that, Josef. The government doesn’t like what’s happening in Russia.”
Josef laughed sharply. “A lot of Russians don’t like it either.”
“Exactly,” Mason said. “And I understand from the major that you don’t like it either. The things they did to your family. Is that so?”
Josef nodded. “Yes.”
“There are others involved in this but you’ve got an advantage over them. You know all about it from the inside. You’re a very valuable man to us and we want to make you even more valuable.”
“Like I said, Mr. Mason. I’ll do whatever you want. You don’t need to persuade me.”
When Johnson talked to him about his meeting with Mason he had obviously been amused at Josef’s description of the encounter. He sat down heavily in the cane chair and looked at Josef.
“You know, my friend, it’s time you changed.”
“Changed what?”
“Every bloody thing. You’re not a cabin-boy on an old tub of a boat now. What old Mason said is right. You’re a valuable man.” When he saw the smile on Josef’s face he said sharply, “Grow up, Josef. This isn’t just a job, this is a career. Make something of it. Don’t be so bloody humble. You said you wanted to fight those bastards who killed your wife and you just go on like a maiden aunt.”
When Josef didn’t reply Johnson said, “I’ve recommended that you should do three months’ basic training in the army before you’re commissioned.”
Josef just shrugged.
Johnson’s hunch about how to stiffen up his protégé was not arrived at without a lot of thought. He knew too much of Josef’s background not to realise that you don’t come out of an orphanage to being a cabin-boy on an old tramp steamer with any great confidence in yourself or the world. And what had happened after must have been like a dream turning into a nightmare. But his ploy worked. Josef came out of his three months’ training a different man. A new self-confidence, no longer the humble orphanage boy. Johnson had given him a copy of the official warrant for the King’s Commission. He was now, despite his civilian clothes, Lieutenant Josef Sanders, General Serv
ice.
Lieutenant Sanders tackled his work with the groups with authority when he went back to Paris, and his instructions from London were now more demanding. It was no longer just a matter of listening to the information that came out of the groups’ contacts in Russia but passing on demands for specific information. Gradually the groups were turned into cells of actual intelligence gathering. The information that they produced was low-level but it covered a wide spectrum of the political and economic life in the Soviet Union. And it was almost the only intelligence available to London.
His visits to Berlin became more frequent and more important. By 1933 the rise of the Nazi Party had made Moscow put pressure on the Cheka to try and recruit the Russian counter-revolutionaries in Germany with pardons for past defections. Sanders worked actively against the Cheka recruitment of any of his contacts and was largely successful. Both in Paris and Berlin his guidance was respected and he was seen as a man of authority. And although his new official status was never revealed it was taken for granted that his authority flowed from official sources in London.
When it became obvious that the Berlin groups were more active and purposeful than those in Paris, Josef was moved to Berlin. Johnson had wondered if past events in Berlin would lead to objections from Josef but when he put the suggestion of the move to him it was clear that Josef welcomed the challenge.
By 1938 Josef was a major in the Intelligence Corps and was now spending more time in London. SIS was now trying desperately to reorganise itself to meet the demands of the war with Germany that was obviously coming. He was put in charge of all intelligence aimed at the Soviet Union and his advice was frequently sought on matters concerning the Soviet attempts to penetrate British life.
On the Sunday morning of September 3, 1939, when war was declared on Nazi Germany, Major Sanders’s identity was changed once again. He was now, officially, Major Joseph Shapiro, thirty-seven years old, and a long-serving and senior officer of MI6.
35
When Hitler gave the order to launch Operation Barbarossa on June 22, 1941 the Soviet Union and Great Britain became allies. Uncomfortable allies.